


And Yet, Here We Are

by ruffboi



Series: So Many Songs to Sing You [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Dissociation, Eventual Fluff, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Has ADHD, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Mute Jaskier | Dandelion, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Sign Language, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, but he does, it is largely a soft story but the angst has to happen first, no beta we die like stregobor fucking should have, not that it's a diagnosis on the continent, voiceless!Jaskier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-02-23 11:48:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23277634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruffboi/pseuds/ruffboi
Summary: After the djinn's attack on Jaskier, the sorceress Geralt takes him to saves his life, at the cost of his voice.  Left without the thing he had built his identity upon, Jaskier has to rebuild himself and find a new purpose in his life.  Geralt wants more than anything to help.  Finding identity and purpose isn't always easy, but love definitely helps.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: So Many Songs to Sing You [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1673926
Comments: 546
Kudos: 819





	1. I've run out of my words, my song

**Author's Note:**

> So... yeah. Voiceless!Jaskier AU for your consideration. A few notes before we start!
> 
> 1) Yes, in reality if Jaskier wasn't able to speak due to damage to his vocal chords, he could still whisper. He cannot, however, because his voice was taken by magic. Thanks for understanding
> 
> 2) This fic will eventually have Yen and Geralt/Jaskier/Yen, which is why I've tagged it with those tags, but she won't start showing up for a bit. I suppose you could say _that_ relationship is slow burn? But the slow burn is not really the focus of the story.
> 
> 3) this is entirely self-indulgent and will be (eventually) very very soft. You've been warned..
> 
> 4) This AU was built with [storyinmypocket](https://archiveofourown.org/users/storyinmypocket/pseuds/storyinmypocket), and they have provided some of Geralt's dialogue. They have helped build a lot of the actual plot moments and events even if they have changed contexts over the course of writing this. While they are not penning this specific fic, they are 100% a co-creator of it and deserve your love as much as I do, because it wouldn't exist without them. They are the heart of my heart and I delight in everything we do together. ♥ Also watch out for any Geralt POV interludes or ficlets from them! They'll be awesome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first scene is in present tense and the rest is in past. The rest of the FIC will be in past. I just preferred that scene in present tense. FORGIVE ME MY TENSE SINS.
> 
> Chapter title is from "The Rockrose and the Thistle" by The Amazing Devil

“I did try to save it,” the barely-clothed sorceress says when she notices Jaskier’s awake. “I’m sorry, for what it’s worth. You’ll want to leave now.”

And she’s painting on her body and there’s some sort of magic about to go down, and Jaskier _does not want to be here_ , so he thinks he tries to say something and can’t manage and assume it has to do with her spells, and essentially flees. He runs into Geralt coming from the other direction as he hits the exterior door, and opens his mouth to say something glib about crazy beautiful women, and…

Nothing. There’s nothing, his mouth and his throat are doing everything he should, air is coming out, but there is no sound. No voice.

Geralt grimaces slightly, like he expected it, and just says, “Stay outside, I’ll be back.”

So Jaskier paces, continues to try to speak as he waits, watches the top floor of the manor, blanches when it collapses. The dust has hardly settled before Geralt is pushing his way outside, _alive_ , and Jaskier grabs the front of his shirt in mixed panic and desperation.

 _What the fuck happened to my voice?_ he tries to ask, silent, so silent. Geralt’s eyes are sad, haunted.

“She saved your life from the djinn’s spell,” he says gruffly. “Said she couldn’t save the rest.” _The rest_ , as if it was something simple, and not the entirety of Jaskier’s identity falling out from under him, as if his voice wasn’t what he’d built everything important about himself on all these years.

Jaskier reels, staggering backward a couple of steps like he’s been struck, Geralt’s shirt slipping out of his hands as he moves back. “Jaskier,” Geralt says, trying to keep Jaskier’s attention, but no, Jaskier is dealing with too much in his head right now, and his instinct is to start talking it out, but the moment the first syllable doesn’t leave his mouth, he snaps it shut. He’s a singer, a charmer, a flirt, someone who has a way with words, someone who thrives and survives on his ability to speak quickly and wittily. And now he is none of those things.

“Come on,” Geralt says, and starts walking, propelling Jaskier with him. “We’ll get back to camp.” Jaskier has to ride Roach in front of Geralt in a calmer, but somehow _worse_ reflection of their desperate ride the day before. (He thinks it was the day before. That seems reasonable to assume.) Instead of finding a cure, they’re returning to that _damn_ lake, and Jaskier’s left the core of his soul behind. He should be makings jokes, innuendo to make about magical women painting things on their stomachs, asking what Geralt was _doing_ while he was unconscious. He should. He can’t.

They get to Geralt’s camp, the one Jaskier had found and drunkenly, unceremoniously dumped his things at before tracking Geralt down to complain about loneliness and heartbreak. He sees his lute case, still propped against his pack, and his stomach twists. Singing and music was both his passion and his livelihood, and he wants to scream and he wants to claw his throat out to at least leave a _reason_ why he’s so silent.

“I’ll start dinner,” Geralt says after a long awkward moment. Jaskier doesn’t try to answer him, lips pressed together so he doesn’t try and feel that stab of wrongness when nothing happens. He stands in front of his bag and lute for a long moment, trying not to think, failing to think, a stream of angry-frightened-overwhelmed building up in his throat, choking him, filling his mouth with words he can’t say anymore. He reaches past his lute for his bedroll, and unrolls it, setting up for the evening for lack of anything better to do. It takes so little time; Geralt is still building up the fire, food won’t be ready for a while. A comment about Geralt’s cooking abilities bubbles up on the back of his tongue, and Jaskier swallows hard, jaw clenched to keep it back.

In the end, he lays down on his bedroll with his back to the fire, and the gaping emptiness in his throat spreads until he can hardly breathe, can’t imagine moving. Geralt says something when the food’s ready, and Jaskier feels bile rising in his throat at the thought of eating, and the emptiness has petrified him where he lays.

“Jaskier?” Geralt asks quietly from just behind him when he doesn’t respond, and it’s so gentle Jaskier thinks he might shatter from it if he tries to acknowledge it. After a few seconds of no response, Geralt just sighs, and Jaskier can hear him move back toward the fire. Hears him eat, set up his own camp, make the area secure, put out the fire, lay down.

Eventually, in the deep silence of the night, Jaskier falls asleep with tears on his cheeks.

* * *

The second night after finding himself voiceless, Jaskier ate.

Geralt had tried, most of the day, to talk to fill the silences. He’d failed horribly, the silences were still long and painful, but the attempt was not lost on Jaskier, and it was enough to melt him out of the petrified, empty shock that had consumed him the night before. Their progress away from the lake had been in the opposite direction of Rinde, even though it was the closest place to go for news or supplies. Jaskier couldn’t help but be glad - if he never saw that town or the lake again, he’d be grateful.

“If we keep making good time, we should reach the next village in three days or so,” Geralt was saying as Jaskier picked at the dried venison stew, wishing he hadn’t emptied his flask already days ago. Or that they didn’t have to make good time, so he could put off carrying his lute as long as possible in the mornings and take it off (and carefully, so carefully, set it down a safe distance away from the fire) as soon as possible in the evenings.

There was a slight shift of movement in the corner of Jaskier’s vision, where Geralt sat, and a subtle glance revealed that Geralt was failing to hide that he kept glancing over at Jaskier, not eating, with a concerned frown. Jaskier lifted the spoon and took a bite. It wasn’t too bad, and… well, to be honest now that he’d forced himself to take a bite, he _was_ pretty hungry. A few bites later and the frown had settled back into the usual one, directed into the fire.

Laying in his bedroll that night, Jaskier didn’t cry, to his great relief. That wouldn’t last, he could tell, but he stared up at the shadows of leaves and branches over the sky, the peek of stars between them in the breeze, and thought about what happened, and didn’t cry.

He couldn’t remember the entire course of events that led to the djinn’s attack on his throat - he’d been a lot more drunk than he would like to admit, burned from being dumped by his most recent lady love, his attempts to flirt ignored by Geralt, and he just felt _lonely_. He remembered needling Geralt, who was clearly in a worse mood than usual, and doing so beyond what he normally would’ve. Prodding him until he lashed out, and then taking it too personally. It was fuzzy, but he remembered Geralt shouting that he just wanted a little peace, and then _pain_ , and–

And Geralt’s face, immediately panicked by what was happening. Whatever he’d been feeling, he hadn’t wanted Jaskier hurt, or dying.

And really, when you thought about it, Jaskier had _known_ , even drunk, that Geralt was exhausted and more volatile than usual. For one of his more obnoxiously annoying drunk idiot mistakes, the fact that he was still here, alive, was more than he’d generally hoped for throughout his adult life. He’d always sort of assumed one day he’d piss off the wrong person and die to that. He’d done it, but then that person had done their best to save him anyway, and succeeded. It was a second lease on life, even if the near-death had never been Geralt’s intention.

Maybe that’s how he could get through this, learn to live with this silence: by viewing it as a kind of gift.

* * *

The third night, Geralt was restless and grumpy. He still hadn’t quite given up attempting to fill silences, but had clearly found it even harder than the day before. In desperation, he’d started singing some folk song, and Jaskier had gotten lightheaded and couldn’t breathe, and it was stupid because other people singing shouldn’t make him feel like he was being crushed to death by his own chest, and after he’d gotten back under control, sitting in the dirt of the road, Geralt had all but forced him to ride Roach the rest of the afternoon.

The whole thing had put Geralt off of speaking, apparently; either that or he was running out of whatever fuel he used to create speech at all, because to Jaskier’s ear it sounded like he was forcing the words out with every ounce of willpower he had, when he spoke.

“I’ll fix it,” Geralt grumbled. Jaskier nodded in response, then shrugged. Oh, he was hoping beyond hope Geralt could find an answer, and soon, but he was still trying to cling to his thought from the night before, that this was the cost of a second chance. Not because of Geralt, nothing to do with Geralt, but because fate herself was trying to tell Jaskier not to be so much of an ass. Geralt frowned deeply at that response.

“It’s important,” he insisted. “I _will_ fix it. It was my wish, it’s my responsibility.” And Jaskier knew he didn’t mean it like that, like the only reason he cared was because he felt obligated, because you couldn’t spend large chunks of over a decade with a man and fall in love with him and not be able to pick out when he truly cares about someone or something. Jaskier knew that Geralt cared, that was why he’d gone to find him in the first place, that day: if nothing else he was lonely and needed to be around someone who gave a shit.

It still felt like a knife twisting in his chest, and his lips twisted in a weak attempt at a smile and waved Geralt off. It wasn’t very believable, but he didn’t want Geralt to feel _obligated_.

“It’s not _fine_ ,” Geralt snapped, more or less accurately translating from Jaskier’s vague gesturing. But to answer that no, it wasn’t, but the idea of obligation made him feel ill? That no, it wasn’t fine, but at least he was _alive_? Jaskier couldn’t figure out how to explain that silently without writing, and the only paper he had was his journal. His songwriting journal, the most recent of many, half-full with notes and ideas and scraps of lyrics and the working drafts of his songs. No, he couldn’t bring himself to use it for this. So instead he just spread his hands helplessly.

Geralt grumbled wordlessly and stood. “Stay here.” He strode into the trees, and Jaskier was left sitting by the fire wondering if Geralt was going to just go scream into the trees or try to find a bear to wrestle with his bare hands or something. That could make a good song, the bear wrestling, but Jaskier shook his head to try to clear that thought from it. Maybe, if Geralt couldn’t find some sort of magic that can undo this, he could write again one day anyway. But not yet.

Geralt came all but stomping back into the clearing after a few minutes and jerked his head for Jaskier to follow. Not having anything better to do, Jaskier went.

A few yards through the brush was another small clearing, not big enough for a camp, but with a large flat area of loose slightly damp earth, not so loose as to be sandy, that had clearly been brushed free of leaves and sticks. Jaskier frowned, and turned to ask– no, to _look confused_ at Geralt, but found a sturdy but narrow stick held out to him.

“Write,” said Geralt. “If you need to.”

Jaskier swallowed hard, fighting tears despite himself. Geralt’s response to Jaskier being unable to communicate a clear thought was to find a way for him to express it, and if Jaskier hadn’t already fallen in love with the witcher years ago, he would have now. He nodded and crouched, considering the space he had and the words he wanted to say.

 **Thought my mouth kill me 1 day,** he wrote carefully in the dirt, cutting out words he didn’t need, grimacing a bit at his mangling of language. It couldn’t be helped, but it wasn’t _fun_. **Least not dead? Good.**

“It wasn’t your– it was _my_ fault,” Geralt said, clearly frustrated. “I was an ass.” And yes, it was technically Geralt’s fault, in that it was his wish that caused this. If he wanted to, Jaskier could blame him. Part of him wanted to. Most of him thought _Geralt_ wanted him to. But really, Jaskier couldn’t find it in him to be angry at Geralt. Not when he saw Geralt’s face when he couldn’t breathe, heard the panic in his voice demanding someone tell him where to find a sorcerer to fix it.

Jaskier smoothed the earth, tamped it down a bit with his foot. **Not intentional.** He paused, then underlined it. He could faintly hear Geralt make a displeased noise, and added, **Didn’t know you had wishes.**

There was a moment’s pause, then Geralt said softly, “And yet, here we are.”

Jaskier couldn’t think of anything to say to that, not that he could fathom writing in the dirt, so he just reached over to pat Geralt’s arm, in comfort or reassurance or forgiveness? He wasn’t sure. Geralt just frowned deeper and sighed. Jaskier didn’t like that frown. It was a _sad_ frown, a _guilty_ frown, one that made him think Geralt was internally flogging himself over something he hadn’t tried or intended to do.

 **Not. Your. Fault.** Jaskier wrote, after smoothing the ground again. **Rather be alive. Other people maybe let me die. But not you. Better.**

Geralt put his hand on Jaskier’s, stilling his scrawling in the dirt before he can try to add more. “I’m still going to fix it,” he said. There was a long pause as Geralt fell silent again, and Jaskier itched to write more, to fill the silence with even the _idea_ of his words, but he could see more words trying to order themselves in Geralt’s mouth, and he didn’t want to spook Geralt into not saying them.

“I’m sorry, Jaskier,” Geralt said, eventually, almost too soft to hear. He cleared his throat and continued a little louder. “You’re not a pie with no filling. Not you, not your singing. I was… I wanted you to go away, stop telling me the truth about how I was avoiding the real problem.” Jaskier knew, he did, that it had been a cruel barb meant to try to get him to storm off in a huff. But it had still hurt, and it still soothed some little wound in his heart to hear it. “When I was trying to save you,” Geralt continued, “I kept thinking I couldn’t let that be the last thing I said to you.”

Jaskier couldn’t help but laugh, though it was just a brief, silent huff of air and shake of his shoulders. The last thing _he_ remembered Geralt saying to him that night was some nonsense about apple juice. He didn’t point that out, even in writing, because really, that wouldn’t have been _much_ better, and also because he knew that wasn’t what Geralt meant.

He couldn’t let the last thing he’d said to Jaskier before they were in crisis mode, the last thing he’d said that he’d remember later, be something cruel.

 **Thanks,** Jaskier wrote. **Appreciate you tried.**

“Wasn’t good enough,” Geralt rumbled under his breath, but he looked at least _slightly_ less like he wanted to throw himself into a lake as penance, and Jaskier would take that. He smiled up at Geralt, weak but at least sincere, because it _did_ mean a lot to him, that Geralt was that desperate to try to save him, and was _this_ torn up by his failure to save _all_ of him.

“Well,” Geralt said, apparently uncomfortable with the implied forgiveness Jaskier kept offering, “do you need anything?”

 _A voice?_ Jaskier thought, his smile fading and his shoulders drooping slightly. _An identity that isn’t built around my words? The ability to undo everything I did to provoke you?_ But nothing Geralt could _actually_ give him came to mind, so instead he shook his head. The light was fading, and they still needed to make supper and eat, so Jaskier pushed himself to his feet and right into Geralt’s chest, not having noticed the larger man move so much closer to him. Geralt caught his arm to keep him from losing his balance and then, looking almost uncertain but deeply determined, pulled Jaskier into a hug.

He was trying to be comforting, working off of an uncertain and ill-used script, but doing his best for Jaskier’s sake, and Jaskier choked on the tears that tried to well up in his eyes. He would _not_ cry, even though the physical affection and comfort was something he hadn’t realized he needed so badly. He just pressed his forehead to Geralt’s chest and breathed in the smell of sweat and horse and leather and _Geralt_ , willed himself to not fall apart, and tried to drink in what might be the only chance he’d have to be this close to the man he loved more than reason itself. He couldn’t stand it for too long, for all he needed the embrace, and he stepped back with what he hoped was a grateful smile before jerking a thumb back over his shoulder toward camp and miming eating stew.

“Fine,” Geralt said, and started to walk back, pointedly keeping Jaskier in front of him for some reason. “Get settled, supper soon.”

Jaskier waited, after supper, for Geralt to fall asleep, or at least lay down silently long enough that Jaskier had to _assume_ he was asleep, before curling in on himself and letting himself cry out all the raw emotions that Geralt’s hug had pulled back up. Not the quiet still tears of that very first night but sobs, for the loss of his voice, the loss of his dreams and plans, the loss of the very core of his identity. He felt lost and isolated and the fact that he could sob so hard and the only sound was the faint exhalation of air made everything even worse.

He wasn’t sure how long he cried, until it petered out into sniffles and he had to blow his nose a few times into his handkerchief, even if the sniffling didn’t stop. He tried to steady his breathing, stop the silent hiccuping breaths that he associated with small children crying themselves sick, and didn’t hear the sounds of Geralt getting up and moving until suddenly he felt Geralt laying down behind him on his bedroll, on top of the blankets, an arm slung over his waist. Where the embrace earlier had forced him to fight back tears, this contact - as unexpected and bizarre as it was - settled Jaskier almost immediately, his trembling breaths slowly evening out to match steady rhythm of Geralt’s breathing.

He was exhausted, and quickly found himself drifting off to sleep, wondering absently if he wasn’t asleep already, to get to feel secure and soothed by Geralt’s solid presence at his back.

He definitely imagined, as he let go of that last scrap of consciousness, that he felt lips press against his hair.


	2. I promise you I’m not broken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is just tumbling out of me at a rate that I am sure will not keep up. I'm hoping to keep it steady enough to finish in a timely manner, though, so bear with me and my lack of regular update schedule! I don't think there are any major grammatical errors, but if I left off half a sentence or something, let me know, I was flagging when I read over it.
> 
> Some early dialogue is taken directly from The Witcher on netflix. Chapter title is from "Farewell Wanderlust" by The Amazing Devil

“Come _on_ ,” Jaskier protested, exasperated with Geralt’s refusal to even engage in a little conversation and mild flirting just because he didn’t want to go to a party. “You must want _something_ for yourself once all this… monster hunting nonsense is over with.”

Like, for example, settling down with a bard, somewhere near the ocean maybe? Jaskier was trying to build Geralt a path to a conclusion, and the damn man kept stealing the cobblestones to build a wall.

“I want nothing,” Geralt growled, shifting unhappily in the wooden tub, and Jaskier sighed. Fine. It’s not like he hadn’t tried before and wouldn’t try again. He could let it lie for now.

“Well, who knows?” He tried to smile, or at least not look disappointed. “Maybe someone out there will want you.”

“I need no one,” Geralt snapped. “And the _last_ thing I want is someone needing me.”

“And yet…” Jaskier grunted softly as he crouched and rested his arms on the edge of the tub, meeting Geralt’s eyes and wanting to say so many things, things that would end with him losing what little scraps of his Witcher he was allowed to cherish. “Here we are.”

“Hmm,” Geralt grumbled. “I just want some damn peace.”

Jaskier frowned. Wasn’t he… didn’t Geralt want his clothes back? “What?”

“I just want some damn _peace_!” Geralt shouted angrily from the lake water he was sitting in, and a wind whipped around Jaskier, pain suddenly shooting through his throat, blood flooding his mouth and choking him.

“Ger- Geralt,” he gasped, blood dripping from his mouth as he tipped back onto the ground, struggling to breathe. “The djinn…”

“Blessed silence,” Geralt said, and lay back in the water as Jaskier drowned on his own blood on the shore. Jaskier desperately scrabbled at the wizard’s seal and the shards of pottery, cutting his hands as he coughed blood all over them.

Roach plodded up curiously and shoved Jaskier’s shoulder with her muzzle. “Jaskier,” she said, in Geralt’s voice, and that didn’t make any sense, but everything was getting hard to focus on, Jaskier couldn’t _breathe_ , and he was going to die here on the shore of this damned lake.

“ _Jaskier_!” Geralt’s voice came again, but this time in his ear, shaking his shoulder, and he was laying on his bedroll, and Jaskier rolled out onto his hands and knees, retching and gasping. He could still feel the ghost of the pain, gagged on the taste of iron lingering in his mouth.

A dream. Just a dream.

Jaskier didn’t move, still breathing heavily and his arms trembling, not sure if he might actually be sick or if it was just the memory of the taste making his stomach twist. He felt one of Geralt’s large warm hands come to rest between his shoulder blades, not rubbing or soothing exactly, but at least providing an anchor to here and now.

“Bad dreams?” Geralt guessed once Jaskier’s breathing had evened out somewhat, his voice soft and lacking in any apparent irritation despite the hour. Jaskier nodded. The details of it were already fading, but he remembered enough. Geralt hummed in response, and the solid presence of his hand lifted as he moved away. Jaskier lifted his head to track Geralt’s movements, to his pack to rummage, and coming back with a water skin.

Jaskier forced himself to push off his hands and knees at least so he could sit, gratefully taking the waterskin. One mouthful to rinse his mouth, spat out as far to the side as he could, and then a mouthful to swallow. He let out a deep breath, his hands already shaking less. Geralt was standing next to him, practically _looming_ , but in a way Jaskier recognized as concern. Jaskier patted the dirt next to him, because frankly even if he knew it was concern, having Geralt looming over you after you’d just had a terrible nightmare was not exactly soothing. Thankfully, Geralt seemed to understand that too, because he carefully settled himself down next to Jaskier, their knees bumping lightly together.

They sat there silently for a few minutes as Jaskier’s heart slowly stopped racing. The dream had been the worst kind, trauma and distorted memories making everything worse, and Jaskier hoped it would continue fading until he could hardly remember he had a nightmare in the first place, but… No, it had to incorporate one of the most vivid memories he had and use it to remind him of the awful things Geralt had said without thinking, the terror Jaskier’d felt when he’d thought he was going to die.

He wondered if Geralt even remembered the conversation, or if it was just a coincidence he’d chosen the same words Jaskier had reached out with that night.

“Was it about the djinn?” Geralt asked. Jaskier wobbled his hand. Sure, the wish and the damage had made an appearance, but it was really more about–

“Was it about _me_?” Geralt asked, his voice quieter. Jaskier grimaces, and knows that response alone was answer enough even in the faint grey of the pre-dawn, judging by Geralt’s small “Hmm” of unhappiness. Jaskier didn’t know how to reassure Geralt that it was just a nightmare - an awful one, one sparked by his actual recent near-death experience, but still just a dream - and that he just needs to breathe. He wasn’t sure if bumping their shoulders together just resting against Geralt’s shoulder would communicate that, but he could give it a shot, right? He wasn’t sure if he imagined Geralt shifting slightly to lean into the touch, but at the very least Geralt didn’t move away, and if Jaskier can’t say something reassuring to Geralt, at least he could do this.

Jaskier thought about finding a patch of bare dirt to scribble on, looking up at the growing light, but Geralt stopped last night instead of pushing to the nearest town only because Roach had gotten a stone in her hoof, and if there was one thing you could depend on Geralt for, it was taking good care of his horse. They’d probably get started early, since they were both already awake, get to town in three hours or so, and then Jaskier could find some paper. If he was lucky there’d be enough call for it in town that it wouldn’t be so expensive and hard to find for sale as it often was.

He could wait until he had paper. It wasn’t like anything he’d be saying in the dirt was particularly important or necessary, anyway.

“Do you need to write?” Geralt asked, quiet and considerate and Jaskier felt torn between it being nice and terrifying. Jaskier loved it, loved being treated as though Geralt actually wanted him to stay, rather than the usual gruffness that, admittedly, Jaskier usually saw was more bark than bite, but was still there keeping him at arm’s length always. On the other hand… if the situation was bad enough that Geralt was being gentle, it almost seemed like Geralt thought he’d drop dead at any second.

Jaskier shook his head quickly and flashed a tired smile. Geralt didn’t need to know about how torn he felt about being treated kindly (and really what did that say about him?), or about the weird conflicting feelings he had about whether or not he was angry at Geralt (mostly no, and again, what did that _really_ say about him?), or especially about what happened in his dream.

Geralt frowned deeper for some reason, despite Jaskier’s attempt at being reassuring. Was that the wrong answer somehow? Did Geralt need more than him than being able to nod? He could try to figure it out, but he’d been so uncertain about trying to communicate through gesture and expression when words were what he knew best. Maybe he’d let it be, but if he did Jaskier easily saw the next few hours unspooling, worrying and overthinking things and ultimately learning Geralt had frowned because his stomach was gurgling or something. So Jaskier tried to draw up some of the verbal bravery he’d managed to (usually) scrape up in the past to actually try to ask what was going on in Geralt’s head. All he could do was lean forward to catch Geralt’s eye and then tilt his head with a confused frown and hope Geralt understood, but he _did_ it, and he thought that was quite brave of him.

“Hmm,” Geralt rumbled. “I’m… not used to you being so quiet,” he said after a few seconds of consideration. Geralt pointedly did not look at Jaskier while he spoke. “Even if you can’t _say_ them, feels wrong you’re not trying to fill the whole forest floor.” There was a pang in Jaskier’s chest at the word _wrong_ , because… yeah. It _was_ wrong. It was wrong for Jaskier the bard, who couldn’t stay silent for thirty seconds without good damn reason, had so few words in him.

The trouble was that Jaskier wasn’t sure he was that person anymore. Wasn’t sure he _could_ be, with his voice and his music gone, with his wit confined to his own head or the patience of his audience while he wrote down his reply. Whoever this silent Jaskier was, he hadn’t found out, and his words seemed to have fled when they weren’t trying to choke him as surely as his blood did.

All he could do was shrug helplessly and hope Geralt felt or sensed the movement. When there were no responses or further questions from Geralt, Jaskier stared out into the trees as the light grew and warmed. They sat like that, shoulders pressed together, silence unnaturally heavy between them, until the sun finally broke the horizon.

“We should get moving,” Geralt said, pushing himself to his feet and offering Jaskier a hand up. “Might be a job in town I can take.”

Right. Because Geralt was still a witcher, and unlike their usual travel arrangement where Jaskier could make enough money to pay his own way (and even Geralt’s if money was tight and there weren’t any monsters to kill), Jaskier was left relying on the handful of coins he had left and whatever Geralt had or could scrape up. Jaskier pulled in on himself, his expression going pinched, an ache spreading in his chest.

He didn’t have any plans to _leave_ Geralt, obviously, especially since the witcher had such a determination to find a way to get his voice back, but it hadn’t really hit him that he didn’t have much of a _choice_. Or that Geralt, who was despite appearances and protestations a kind and compassionate person, couldn’t leave him in good conscience even if he hadn’t already determined to fix things.

It didn’t change anything, not really, but it rankled, to think about how few skills he had and how impossible it would be for him to survive right now if he went off on his own.

Geralt crouched across the campsite, gathering his things into his pack until he glanced up at Jaskier and frowned, his eyes searching Jaskier’s face. Jaskier moved jerkily, methodically packing up what few of his possessions had been unpacked last night, not wanting to be subject to the scrutiny - or at least not to be aware of it.

“All right, Jaskier?” Geralt asked, his frown clear in his tone.

_Yeah,_ Jaskier said instinctively, then slowly stilled, hands hanging limply at his sides. He hadn’t actually tried to say anything since that first day, and the shape of the easy response in his mouth without any sound but the soft exhalation of breath…

“Jaskier?” Geralt repeated, growing concern in his voice. Jaskier waved him off without turning around, resumed his packing and tried to ignore the ache in his chest spreading and intensifying until he was surprised he was still moving and could do anything other than curl into a ball and gasp for air. He couldn’t hear Geralt move for a few seconds, but then he heard the familiar sound of Geralt hoisting Roach’s saddle up onto the mare’s back, and Jaskier let out soft sigh. Geralt was being attentive and gentle and part of Jaskier was desperate for it. But part of him just kept thinking about how he doesn’t know of anything that could undo a djinn’s magic and how he was pretty sure Geralt didn’t either.

They’d travelled together on and off for over a decade, but they’d always spent a few weeks here and there apart, never mind the months in the winter that Geralt would return to Kaer Morhen for whatever it was witchers did all winter. Before he found Geralt at the lake, they hadn’t seen each other in nearly a month. Now Geralt had a self-imposed responsibility to fix this, and a mute and relatively helpless Jaskier who couldn’t really go off on his own or be left behind for very long at a time.

How long until Geralt started to resent him, and every way he was about to seriously change Geralt’s lifestyle in a way he hadn’t before?

Jaskier shook himself out of that line of thought after what felt like only a few moments’ thought, but must have been longer, because Roach was saddled and packed, the ashes of the fire buried, and he was standing empty-handed in front of his lute case. He couldn’t tell if he’d just mindlessly continued to help striking camp or if Geralt had done it around him. He sucked in a sharp breath, and picked up the case so he wasn’t left just standing there staring dumbly at it; hopefully that sort of moment wasn’t going to become common in his life now.

He started to sling it over his shoulder, but Geralt’s hand on his arm stopped him. He frowned up at Geralt, confused, but all the other man did was take the lute case from him, near-reverently, and then went to where Roach stood and carefully but securely lashed it to the top of their packs. Jaskier didn’t know how to feel, seeing it up there instead of feeling the weight of it against his back. It was _his_ , it was part of him as much as– well, as much as his voice had been. Might as well be missing that as well, right?

All the same, as they returned to the road and silently began the last leg to the next town, Jaskier felt like he could breathe better without the reminder of it slung over his shoulder.

The first order of business, according to Geralt, was getting a room at the inn, then Geralt would ask around about work.

“You need paper,” Geralt said as they reached the outskirts of the town - really it was barely a village from the looks of it, and Jaskier had the sinking feeling they may not have much luck on that front. “But a room and food comes first,” Geralt continued. “And we don’t have enough for both yet. So I’ll find a lead on work, and we’ll get paper after I get paid.”

Jaskier had the fleeting thought that this was probably the most explicit Geralt had ever been with him about plans, and oh it only took _this_ to get him to communicate even a little bit? But that wasn’t fair - Geralt was aware that Jaskier couldn’t exactly ask for more details or clarification if he was as vague or reticent as he usually was, and was trying to make up for it. It was disappointing to hear, but it wasn’t like there was much to argue, or much ability he had to argue even if he wanted to. Maybe he could throw a temper-tantrum like a spoiled five-year-old and stomp his feet and refuse to move, but he could use some good food and a drink, so instead he simply silently followed Geralt as he made his way to the one tiny inn in the village.

Jaskier was used to - when he wasn’t exhausted - entering inns a few seconds ahead of Geralt with his lute already out of her case, bombastic and enthusiastic and charming. It helped set people a little bit more at ease when it came to Geralt, or at least distracted them. People had gotten a sight more accepting after “Toss a Coin to Your Witcher” had caught on, but they still got _nervous_ , and couldn’t generally said to be friendly. Coming in silently on Geralt’s heels was unnerving, especially given the not _especially_ friendly looks they got from the locals. Mostly directed at Geralt, admittedly, but a few of them looked at him with narrowed eyes, like he was suspect himself simply for being in a witcher’s company. He got that look sometimes anyway, but most folk were willing to roll their eyes and let him be at least, an eccentric bard who writes fantastic songs and ballads.

It was hard to accept that he wasn’t that, anymore.

“Only got one room free,” the innkeeper was saying to Geralt, and Jaskier found himself nervously closing the distance between himself and Geralt under the weight of the locals’ gazes.

“It’s fine,” Geralt said, putting some coins on the counter. “Know of anyone with my particular kind of problem?”

“Not I,” she responded, sweeping the coins into her pocket and retrieving a key, heading to the stairs to show them to their room. “Tanner just got back from the next town over. Bigger there, got a manor house and all. He might’ve heard something.”

“Appreciate it,” Geralt rumbled, and the innkeeper unlocked one of two doors at the top of the stairs. Jaskier smiled gratefully at her at she stepped back to let them enter. Jaskier entered the small room, clean at least, and set his bag and lute down at the foot of the bed. “Can my friend get some food and an ale when he comes down?”

“Sure,” she said easily, pocketing another coin as Jaskier turned around. “Just cold sliced chicken sandwiches until supper’s cooked, but the bread’s fresh.”

“Fine,” Geralt said, then added as the innkeeper turned to leave, “Thank you.” He was clearly working to be more _polite_ , if nothing else, and Jaskier wondered if it was because he felt self-conscious without Jaskier able to be charming and polite, or if he was worried that Jaskier would have trouble if he was too grumpy. Jaskier wasn’t sure he wouldn’t have trouble anyway, but no point going down _that_ particular road.

Geralt didn’t bother to close the door, just checked the straps of his swords, probably more out of habit than an expectation of running into trouble. Or at least, Jaskier hoped so. “I’ll go see the tanner,” he said. “Let you know if I get any good leads. Might head to the next town if it’s close enough and it sounds worthwhile.” Jaskier grimaced, thinking about the couple of days minimum that would take, and it didn’t sound like he planned to take Jaskier _with_ him. Geralt pressed his lips together. “It’s cheaper to keep a room here,” he explained. “And probably safer. Just stick to the village proper. I’ll let you know if I find anything before I go anywhere.”

Jaskier sighed and rubbed his face with a hand. He understood the request to stay inside the village, since he didn’t have much in the way of combat abilities, and now he couldn’t even shout for help should something happen. And of course Geralt would assume something would happen - in his defense, they often did when he was around. Jaskier had gotten through a lot of his life that Geralt was _not_ around for with a minimum of issues or near-death experiences, but he wasn’t interested in tempting fate either.

“I know,” Geralt said, voice softening from his business voice to something sympathetic and gentle. “You shouldn’t have to be confined even that much. I’m just–”

Jaskier waved him off, exasperated. There was no need for Geralt to explain, especially sounding so much like he cared. Which obviously he did, Jaskier knew he was about the closest thing he had to a friend outside the witchers themselves, but his voice going soft like that just made Jaskier hope too much.

“All right,” Geralt relented. “Go eat something. Be back soon one way or another.”

Jaskier waited until Geralt had turned and had started down the stairs before he flopped back onto the bed, letting it support him as he convinced himself it was a good idea to go downstairs and get the food and drink Geralt had already paid for. The bed wasn’t the nicest, but it was softer than his bedroll, and he was already feeling exhausted somehow despite only walking for a few hours and not _doing_ anything. Maybe he could just sleep until Geralt got back. Then he wouldn’t have to think about… well, any of it.

It was tempting, and he almost gave in to the desire, but the door was open and Geralt _had_ paid for the food already and would probably fuss if he hadn’t eaten yet when he got back from his search for rumors of paying monster hunting jobs. Jaskier would’ve groaned as he sat up and pushed himself to his feet, if he could’ve, and made his way downstairs reluctantly.

“Ah,” the innkeeper said when she saw him at the bottom of the stairs. “You get yourself a seat, I’ll have food right over for you, lad.” Jaskier thought privately that the innkeeper didn’t look _that_ much older than him, probably barely 40, but just nodded and found the unoccupied table the closest to being in a corner to tuck himself up in, a ways away from other patrons, who all seemed to be sizing him up.

A few seconds of subdued conversation passed before one of men called out, “‘Ey, boy!” Jaskier glanced up despite himself. At least he only looked curious and a little… hopeful? “You that bard what travels 'round with the White Wolf?” Ah. They were hoping for a performance, and Jaskier couldn’t breathe, wanted to claw his skin off and disappear. _Everything_ was wrong, and people knew what he looked like, or at least what _Geralt_ looked like, and–

“Oh, leave the boy alone,” the innkeeper scolded as she came over with a plate and a mug. “Even if he were, he’d let _you_ know if he were in the mood to play for your stingy arse.” The man grumbled, but turned back to his drink, and Jaskier gave the woman a crooked grateful smile that he _hoped_ expressed how much he didn’t want to have to answer that question. “You never mind them,” she said. “Nosy lot, but they don’t mean no harm. You need anything else, dear?” Jaskier shook his head, and she hesitated for a moment, maybe wondering why he hadn’t _said_ anything since he walked in, but turned without asking, stopping by the curious man’s table to scold him further in a whisper.

Whatever conclusion she’d come to about why he was so quiet, Jaskier decided he liked her quite a lot.

He was done with the sandwich and halfway through his ale when Geralt came striding back in and scanned the room until his eyes landed on Jaskier. As purposeful as he seemed making his way to the table, Jaskier could only guess he’d gotten a good lead.

“Next town over has a wraith,” Geralt said gruffly, and Jaskier nodded in understanding. Geralt took his coin purse off his belt and pushed it over to Jaskier. “Should only be a couple days, four at the most.” He hesitated, like he wanted to say something more, but laughter broke out at a nearby table and apparently reminded him that they weren’t alone in the woods. Jaskier wondered what he’d wanted to say. Instead, Geralt just clapped him on the shoulder, then turned and walked out of the inn.

Jaskier swallowed hard, facing the prospect of a silent few days alone in this village he didn’t even know the name of, praying to any god that would listen that Geralt would be all right and come back. He tossed back the rest of his ale and grabbed the coin purse as he stood and made a beeline for the stairs.

“Everything all right, luv?” the innkeeper asked, apparently concerned, and he managed a tight smile and a nod. He didn’t want to be down there anymore, with people who might ask questions, even just to be friendly. He didn’t want to risk gossip about him showing up with Geralt leading to more questions about whether or not he was 'that bard’.

He closed and locked the door, then flopped face-down on the bed. This was fine. He was _not_ a wilting flower, he was better than this. He wasn’t going to get _mobbed_ for not being able to speak, and anyone who was curious about him would probably feel too awkward to bother him once it was clear he couldn’t answer. But he still couldn’t stand the thought. At least Geralt _knew_ him, and could guess more or less what he was feeling, if not what he was thinking.

Jaskier kicked his boots off, then pulled the pillow to his chest and curled around it, suddenly wishing for Geralt’s solid warmth at his back, keeping him grounded, making him feel safe and like things might eventually be okay again. Instead, he felt like he was bleeding out of his body, turning into mist that could be blown away with the slightest breeze.

He didn’t move for a long time after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me on tumblr at [@bygodstillam](http://bygodstillam.tumblr.com) if you want to yell or whatever :)


	3. I will wait and hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier has a rough couple of days, emotionally. Geralt has a gift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly shorter chapter, but I really wanted to get this out for y'all!
> 
> If you haven't read the first little interlude from @storyinmypocket's Geralt POV snippets, [you should do that now](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23355862)! It happens during and after chapter 2, and is amazing.
> 
> There's a really brief moment of "wish I was dead" (not full-on suicidal ideation) that gets quickly shut down a couple paragraphs in. Just a heads up.
> 
> Chapter title from "Marbles" by The Amazing Devil

Jaskier struggled in Geralt’s absence, with how overwhelmingly silent the room was when he couldn’t speak or sing. The first night he slept poorly, but it was otherwise uneventful, no reason to worry about Geralt on the road, likely not even all the way to his destination, no performances to put on. After waking, he didn’t feel like descending to the main room, and tried to convince himself that returning to as normal as possible a routine would be best. He got as far as pulling out his journal, but found himself staring at the most recent unfinished scattering of lyrics for a song whose melody he couldn’t quite get right when he’d been working on it last. He stared at it until he noticed the darkening dots of tears falling onto the paper, and shut it with a snap, all but throwing it at his pack across the room, swiping angrily at his eyes.

With Geralt gone, unable to hate himself more for something Jaskier realistically didn’t want him to take blame for, Jaskier allowed himself to feel angry. Angry that Geralt wouldn’t listen to him that the djinn wouldn’t do anything to help him sleep. Bitter that Geralt hadn’t been more careful with what he said. Angry that Geralt had been able to find some way to save his life but not his voice.

Bitter that he’d been saved in this state at all. There was no place in the world for a bard with no voice, and part of him wondered if it wouldn’t have been better if Geralt hadn’t been able to get him help in time.

Jaskier quashed that line of thought almost as soon as it came up. It was one thing to be angry and bitter, but alive was better than not. Alive meant he could stay with Geralt. Alive meant more wine, and new adventures, and regardless of the situation, as angry and miserable as Jaskier was now, he wanted to see more of the world.

He still let himself stew angrily the entire first day he was there alone, and left the room only for lunch and supper. He tried as best he could to smile at Janah - the innkeeper’s name, he learned - who was almost too kind to bear when she realized that rather than simply being shy the afternoon before, he actually couldn’t speak. She fed him up at the bar, chatted about the local gossip that he had no context for, told him about interesting patrons she’d had before, and shooed away anyone who tried to ask him questions or otherwise bother him.

He drank himself nearly into a stupor after supper that night, despite the fact that he shouldn’t have been wasting what little money they had, and had essentially emptied the coin purse for Janah by the end of the evening, and barely remembered her helping him upstairs to his bed. The next morning he woke to a pitcher of water and a fresh loaf of bread on a tray on the table, next to Geralt’s coin purse, refilled with all the coin he’d spent the night before. The note set between them simply read,  _ “I can spare one night’s worth of ale for you to drown whatever sorrows you have hidden away. Eat and drink, you’ll feel better.” _

Jaskier sat at the table and cried silently over her kindness even as he forced himself to eat and drink as instructed. Once he finished, he placed the tray in the hall and, feeling the headache pounding behind his eyes not improving, climbed back into bed. He lay there dozing in and out of unsatisfying sleep, crying intermittently, until long after sunset, unable to summon the energy to get out of bed for meals, let alone dress and make his way downstairs. The silence rang in his ears.

Geralt was planning to be gone four days at the most, and when he hadn’t made it back to the inn by the time the sun had set and the evening crowd was well on their way to drunk on that second day since he’d left, Jaskier felt confident that Geralt wouldn’t be back until the next day, at least. It was for the best, he thought, because it would allow him to purge as much of this…  _ melancholy _ as possible before Geralt came back.

He was curled up and staring blankly out the dirty glass of the window next to the bed when the door opened. He only barely recognized the sound of it, his mind distant and unreachable, and he thought faintly that it was good he wasn’t crying - hopefully Janah would assume he was asleep, and leave whatever reason she was coming upstairs until tomorrow. Maybe he could be a person tomorrow. There were other sounds, but they were faint, and Jaskier couldn’t bring himself to even care about what they might be.

He only half processed the feeling of someone sitting on the edge of the bed, a soft voice speaking sounds he couldn’t quite turn into words, the feeling of being pulled upright and into someone’s arms. It was the warmth of those arms wrapped around him, the rumble of quiet speech, that pulled him (painfully, like through molasses by a toothed shackle) back into himself.

Geralt was holding him, all but cradled against his chest, murmuring worriedly. “Come back, Jaskier. Come on, you’re strong enough.” Jaskier tucked it away in the back of his head, the fact that Geralt didn’t seem too shocked to find Jaskier had just left his body behind like that, even if he didn’t mean to do it. He shifted, exhaled shakily, and Geralt’s hold tightened slightly.

“Okay, Jaskier?” he asked, his voice vibrating through his chest almost like a cat’s purr, resonating through Jaskier’s bones in a way that made him want Geralt to just keep talking forever. That was too much of an ask, obviously, but for a moment Jaskier actually felt like he could breathe. Jaskier nodded, then shook his head, and found the tears spilling over again despite himself. He would’ve thought he didn’t have a tear left in him, but apparently his body had taken time during his little mental jaunt to the foggy nowhere he’d spent the evening in to create  _ more _ .

Geralt let out an unhappy grumble at his response, but simply shifted Jaskier into a little more comfortable of a position, Jaskier’s head tucked under his chin. It was warm and safe and Jaskier wished for just a moment that he could have this forever, this space in Geralt’s arms, not just now while he’s so broken and Geralt feels so guilty. He knew he couldn’t, but just for now, he could pretend. Geralt held him, still and silent, until Jaskier’s breathing evened out and his tears finally stopped.

“Got you something,” Geralt said, shifting to try to reach his things. Jaskier pushed off his chest reluctantly to allow him to stretch further, head tilted curiously. Since when did Geralt get him things? Geralt pulled out what looked briefly like a little wooden book of some sort, before Jaskier lit up and reached out for it in recognition, opening the wooden panels to reveal the wax tablets and stylus inside. It was nice, as well, the wax the perfect firmness for quick writing, without needing too much effort to scratch letters into the surface. The stylus was a design Jaskier had seen before, that had a mild enchantment on it that warmed both the metal ends, to better cut through the wax when writing, and to easily and quickly smooth the wax out to write something else.

Jaskier ran his fingers lightly over the tablets for a moment as it really sank in, in a different way, that he would be dependent on this tool and this man who gave it to him, for the foreseeable future. That it wasn’t going to be a quick or easy fix to get his voice back. The tablet was bittersweet - a tool to let him communicate, but a reminder of everything he’d lost. He wondered if that aching bitterness under the sweet would be with him forever, or if it would fade.

**Thanks.** Jaskier scribbled in the wax after a moment, holding it up for Geralt to see. The corners of the witcher’s eyes crinkled slightly and his mouth twitched a bit in what Jaskier had come to recognize as a smile.

“There are ways to speak with your hands that we can learn, if you want,” Geralt says as Jaskier smoothes the wax to flat again. “But I thought this would be cheaper than paper when we can’t get it, and easier than finding the right kind of dirt.” Jaskier couldn’t help a little bark of laughter at that, unnervingly silent as it was, at the mental image of Geralt trying to find a patch of dirt every time Jaskier wanted to say something. Easier indeed.

**Hand speak. Like soldiers?** Jaskier wrote, tilting the tablet towards Geralt. He knew that soldiers or scouts would often have hand signals they used to communicate silently. He wasn’t sure anything like that would have even a fraction of the words he’d want to say, but it would at least be faster than writing.

“Similar,” Geralt answered with a nod. “Better for actually talking, though. They have a kind of hand speech in Mahakam that would suit, I think.” Jaskier’s eyebrows shot up, because Geralt was relying on the possibility that the dwarves and gnomes that essentially ruled the mountain city would allow them in to learn it in the first place.

**How get in?** Jaskier wrote, looking up at Geralt uncertainly. Geralt’s jaw set in a way that made it clear he’d thought about the difficulty too, possibly a lot.

“Not sure,” Geralt admitted. “We’ll convince them.” And that was that, apparently. Jaskier couldn’t quite disbelieve him, either, when he spoke like that. So they’d go to Mahakam and the two of them would learn how to speak with their hands. Jaskier wouldn’t deny that it sounded like a dream come true, to be able to speak faster than he could write, even if it was with hands instead of lips and voice. It was a kind of acceptance, though, a bigger kind than just a wax tablet represented. As much as it excited him, it also made something twist up unpleasantly in his chest.

Geralt seemed to notice the shift in Jaskier’s demeanor, and frowned slightly, watching Jaskier’s face intently. Jaskier had to remind himself that it was just necessity, his expressions helped Geralt understand what he was saying - or not saying - and so Geralt watched like he was drinking Jaskier in. Just to be kind. It didn’t mean anything more than that. He waved Geralt off, and wrote,  **Just tired,** on the tablet. Which, admittedly, was not untrue, despite how little he’d done and how much he’d slept all day.

“Hm,” Geralt grunted in response, and got to his feet to strip down and get ready to sleep. Jaskier smoothed the wax down and traced the edges of the wood with a faint smile. Everything else aside, the knowledge that Geralt was trying this hard to find solutions for him was nice. More than nice. It made Jaskier want to throw caution to the wind and kiss Geralt thoroughly. He wouldn’t, lest he drive Geralt away, put him off of the comforting touches he’d been allowing Jaskier to have the past… had it been a week? Maybe over a week, since he woke up silent. The choking feeling of words he couldn’t speak started rising in his throat, and he set the wax tablet on the windowsill, then slid under the blankets to curl up and try to fight it down while Geralt went through his small habits and rituals.

It was still there trying to push out in a scream he couldn’t voice when Geralt put out the candles and climbed into the bed, immediately curling against the line of Jaskier’s back as he had every night since he heard Jaskier crying in the middle of the night and came to hold him. The weight of Geralt’s arm draped over his stomach was enough to start to dissolve the choking feeling in Jaskier’s throat, and he sighed softly in relief, melting back into Geralt’s chest. He knew it was Geralt trying to be comforting and compassionate. He knew that once he was a little less falling apart, Geralt would go back to his own bed or bedroll. But until that day, Jaskier was going to appreciate this and soak up as much of the affection as he could.

“G’night, Jaskier,” Geralt mumbled, his breath warming the back of Jaskier’s neck and sending shivers down his spine. Jaskier squeezed the wrist of the arm Geralt had slung over him, and hoped that little touch communicated a reciprocal.

Jaskier drifted off with the soft slow rhythm of Geralt’s breathing lulling him into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the chapters so far have essentially ended in Jaskier going to sleep. This is how you know he's depressed.
> 
> It's getting better, though, right? Plans are being made! Things are not entirely awful! No one has fucking kissed yet! *sob*
> 
> Anyway wax tablets were an actual thing that humans have used for "on the go writing" and practicing writing and stuff since like Ancient Mesopotamia. I made Jaskier's easier to work with because magic, but it's essentially the same tool!
> 
>  **EDIT:** HOLY SHIT Y'ALL SOMEONE DID FAN ART. [This lovely art by mail-me-a-snail](https://mail-me-a-snail.tumblr.com/post/617496647371538432/geralt-was-holding-him-all-but-cradled-against) on tumblr of Geralt coming back and helping pull Jaskier out of his dissociation is absolutely maddeningly perfect and I need everyone to see it.


	4. those songs we sung, those words we flung

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \o/ This is officially my Longest Fic Ever, not counting one truly horrific RENT fic back in 2005 that I did for NaNo that I will never ever speak of again.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it! It's about twice as long as chapter 3 which is good because I'd felt very much like chapter 3 wasn't long enough. 
> 
> Chapter title is from "Wild Blue Yonder" by The Amazing Devil

The road to Mahakam was not particularly long, but it seemed _slow_ . By the third day on the road, Jaskier was confident that Geralt was traveling slower intentionally, and he wasn’t sure how to take it. It was probably concern, that mother hen instinct that Geralt absolutely had and denied at every turn. Jaskier’d seen it, the man was… well, all right, he was very _bad_ at nurturing, but he also _tried_ , and that was the important part.

The other option was that he didn’t _want_ to go to Mahakam, or didn’t want to go with Jaskier, and that sat less easy with him. Was it that he felt like finding words for Jaskier that weren’t spoken seemed like giving up? Jaskier could understand that; he felt like that himself, in a way, and though he was trying to see it as a boon it was not lost on him that learning another language, especially one so alien to his experience, would take _time_. Time that they could’ve spent trying to get his voice back, if that was something so easily done. If it _wasn’t_ easily done, well, it might be worth spending this time first, so he wouldn’t destroy himself through his forced silence.

But also… the reticence Geralt was showing in their travel could come from Geralt not wanting to be caught up in this. Jaskier wouldn’t blame him. He didn’t even sign up for a _bard_ , not really, but at least before Jaskier could largely take care of himself. Now he’s just a voiceless _nothing_ , draining on Geralt’s always-limited resources, not even pulling his own weight as much as Roach did.

Jaskier took a deep breath, from his perch on Roach’s back (at Geralt’s insistence), and then let it out slowly.

Geralt turned back to frown at him, because of _course_ he did. “Need to stop?” he asked, and Jaskier wanted to kiss him and kick him in equal measure. Jaskier pulled out his tablet and scribbled, his letters large and a little wobbly thanks to Roach’s gait.

**Fine, keep walking.**

Geralt didn’t seem to fully believe it, but turned forward and back to leading. It would be okay. Geralt would take him to Mahakam, and whether he stayed or not, Jaskier could learn a hand sign speech and find someone to translate for him. There had to be those in Mahakam who could hear but knew this hand speech who’d like to leave, like a _reason_ to leave, that working as a translator would grant them. If Geralt wanted to leave him behind, he’d be all right. He could manage.

He always had.

* * *

**We’re going really slow.**

Jaskier held the tablet out as Geralt chewed his dinner (rabbit, not rations, thankfully). Deciding to broach the subject had taken a while, but ultimately he just wanted to get where they were going. Once they were there, he could start learning, and have _something_ to do with his evenings by practicing.

(Once they were there, maybe the noise and the people and the purpose would make the world stop feeling distant and unreal, like it was mist he could disperse with a wave of his hand, if he could bring himself to go to the effort of moving it.)

Geralt seemed a bit taken aback by the comment, and looked between Jaskier and the tablet a couple of times, that little crease appearing between his eyebrows that meant he was confused. (Jaskier wanted to kiss it until it turned into the thin-lipped, surprisingly frownless expression of exasperation. When had it gotten so hard to box up these feelings and put them aside?)

“You’re hurt,” Geralt said, and it was a declaration, sure, but Jaskier _knew_ him. Knew what it meant. _I thought you were hurt and reacted how I thought I should, but now I’m not sure anymore._ The giant idiot. Jaskier rolled his eyes and reached over to gently smack Geralt upside the head with the tablet. The confusion deepened, and was joined by irritation. “What the hell, Jaskier?” he asked, more sharply than Jaskier thought his light love-tap warranted, but it was better than the just-this-side-of-too-gentle that he’d been getting. Nice as it was to be looked after tenderly, from Geralt it felt wrong, after a point.

 **Can’t talk,** he wrote in the wax, the letters carved almost awkwardly deep in his rush. **Not injured. Nothing healing. Can go faster.**

“Hm,” is the only response Geralt gave as he read the words, frown firmly in place, and Jaskier could _scream_ from the frustration of not being able to _say_ what he meant and shout at Geralt for being overprotective and making him feel more broken than he felt already. He got up abruptly and all but stalked a few feet away to get on the other side of Roach and actually do it. He pressed his forehead to the mare’s side, grateful for her patience, took a deep breath, and just _screamed_.

If anyone could’ve heard anything but a sharp exhalation of breath, it would’ve been loud and long and absolutely feral.

It didn’t help as much as he’d hoped; his throat felt raw and strained in a way that probably meant he’d overdone it despite Yennefer’s magical healing, and the lack of sound made the catharsis feel hollow and empty.

Like a pie with no filling.

A few more deep breaths, trying to get air back into his empty aching lungs, and he went back around to sit down again, picking up his tablet. Geralt looked concerned, _openly_ concerned, not just hidden in specific grumpy frowns, and Jaskier pretended he didn’t see.

 **I’d like a bath if we can afford to stop,** he wrote, taking the time to write it completely, not leaving out unnecessary words or working quickly. And then, after handing it to Geralt, Jaskier left it with him, his bedroll already laid out, waiting for him.

Geralt waited a long time, and Jaskier had actually nearly fallen asleep, before he climbed in to curl around Jaskier as usual.

Jaskier sighed in relief that he’d come, muscles unspooling, and drifted off to sleep bitter that he was so comforted by the warmth of the witcher at his back.

* * *

Jaskier got his bath.

The water was still being warmed when Geralt strode back into their room to grab his swords.

“Found a job in the next village,” he said gruffly, strapping them on.

Jaskier scrambled across the room to grab his tablets, carving into it as quickly as he could, turning it back toward Geralt.

He didn’t look.

“Has to be tonight. Sprit only shows up on the new moon,” Geralt continued, and Jaskier tried to catch his attention with his tablet more insistently.

He didn’t _look_.

“Should be back in a day at most. If it’s two, don’t panic.” And then he strode out - not cruelly, not angrily, just in a rush. Trying to get to the neighboring village and its nighttime, new moon monster.

Jaskier was left in the room, holding his tablet in his lap as what just happened sank in. As his complete lack of being able to communicate, in any way, was taken and shoved back in his face like an old sock someone never wanted to see again.

 _Geralt. Didn’t._ **_Look_** _._

The girl who prepared his bath started to leave, and he gestured wildly to get her attention, then turned back to his tablet to scribble on the side he hadn’t written to Geralt on.

 **Is room and food paid up? Go ask please?** The girl squinted at the words, carefully sounding them out with her mouth, and Jaskier was just glad she could make them out at all, to be honest.

“I’ll ask,” she said helpfully, and ran off. Jaskier undressed anyway, even though she could theoretically return any moment, and got in the tub, not bothering with salts or oils. There was a sharp knock and Jaskier tried to ask who it was, but-- oh. The girl opened his door and stuck her head in, carefully. “Miss says the room is paid for three days, but food was not included,” she said in the cadence of someone who was repeating something precisely. He smiled tightly, both in gratitude and because _he didn’t have any coin to tip her with_ , because Geralt of Rivia set off with his coin purse firmly affixed to his belt, and Jaskier could feel his stomach sour already with the stress of it.

He sat in the tub for too long, everything feeling wrong, his heart feeling like it had been torn out and chopped up and stitched back into him in chunks. He had a room. He had no food. No way to _pay_ for food. And Geralt had been right there and–

He sank into his bath water, holding his breath until he couldn’t anymore, surfaced and gasped until he could breathe again, then submerged again.

On his tablet, an unread message, carved too quickly into the wax, read, **Everything paid for??**

* * *

He’d write a letter, he decided. He’d write Geralt a letter about how upset he was by the fact that the witcher _left him_ , without any way to buy his own food, and it was quite rude not to look at his message asking about it. He managed to look sad enough at the innkeeper downstairs that the man parted with a few sheets of parchment meant for his books, with promise of repayment once Geralt was back.

He started the letter quite sensibly, and reasonably. Laying out the facts and why it upset him. He only had his writing to communicate. If he’d been able to speak, he could have shouted and protested. If he’d been able to speak, he could have simply sung for his supper, which he couldn’t do anymore.

He made it about half a page before his handwriting was getting looser and larger as he scribbled, his words that had been so trapped in him spilling over and onto the page.

He ran out of paper quickly, and with a silent _fuck_ that no one would hear, he reached into his bag, pulling out his journal, ripping a chunk of pages out from the back without thinking about the possibilities or repercussions. They were small. They were meant to be used with his usual cramped handwriting, and a few of the pages in fact included a few lines in faint pencil. Nevertheless, he starts letting his looser, angerier, cooped-up-in-his-throat words bleed out over the pages in ink.

**I didn’t ask for this.**

**You fucking abandoned me.**

**I don’t want pity.**

**You can’t just fucking LEAVE.**

**I know I’m broken stop trying to convince me I’m not.**

**Fuck you fuck you fuck YOU.**

It was like yelling, so fucking, not-quite, _deliciously_ like yelling, and when he finally ran out of things to write, he made sure to spread them across the surfaces of the room. The bed, the little table, the floor. It wasn’t yelling, but he let an exhausted little breath out anyway, cathartic energy already drained.

He left enough room on the bed to climb into the far side, and all but collapsed into sleep.

* * *

Geralt was, perhaps unsurprisingly, not back yet when Jaskier woke up, surrounded by the papers that held everything he’d purged the night before. He sat and stared blankly at the detritus of his hurt and anger, feeling hollowed out and weary.

Hollowed out and weary, but not like he was going to get lost in the mist again, which brought on a feeling of something like relief. He got out of bed and pulled fresh(ish) clothes on, being careful not to disturb any of the papers as he did. That was the thing, he was angry still, and he thought he had every right to be. Geralt didn’t get to be overwhelmingly attentive one moment and then just _refuse to listen to him_ the next, especially before running off to maybe get himself killed without thinking about how Jaskier would _survive_.

No, Jaskier thought with an admittedly bitter-tasting sort of pride, the papers would stay. He couldn’t yell at Geralt, but as emotionally raw as he felt glancing over the things he’d written, maybe it would _get through_ to Geralt and he’d look next time. And the time after that. And _every time_ Jaskier was trying so hard to reach out of the silent pit he’d fallen into to connect to another goddamn person.

That decided, clothed and with a clean face from scrubbing in the washbasin, Jaskier considered his options. He could swear up and down to the innkeeper that the witcher would be back to pay for any meals he might have while staying alone, but the fact was that most people would be dubious of a witcher’s guarantee to come back. Especially given how quickly he left, for the next town over. Jaskier could, instead, set up in the main room or the town square with his lute and play, and hope for some generosity from the townsfolk. The problem was that without his voice, he was limited to only the sound of his lute itself. Which, admittedly, was fantastic, but wasn’t likely to earn him much of anything. Instrumental music was for banquets and noble halls, before the night moved on to more energetic entertainment. People in a little place like this looked to a bard for entertainment with jigs, melodramatic ballads, tales of adventure, and songs about maidens fucking farmboys. Jaskier could play a mean jig, but for the rest… well.

And anyway, doing that would mean actually _playing_ , and thinking about it still made something twist up in his stomach.

No, not today, he thought, and snagged his tablet before heading to the door. Today, he would hope that the innkeeper or one of his neighbors would take pity on him and give him some sort of small job to do in exchange for food or a little bit of money. It wasn’t something Jaskier was looking forward to, silently begging for the chance to do menial labor, but it wasn’t like he had many options.

* * *

The innkeeper _did_ have a few unskilled tasks that he usually had his daughter do alone, but he seemed to be perfectly happy to let Jaskier help with them in exchange for food, even giving him breakfast before setting him to work.

“That witcher of yours left you here without coin for food?” he’d asked, eyes narrowed, when Jaskier approached him. Jaskier shrugged, spreading his hands dramatically, trying to play it off as sort of a ‘witchers, am I right?’ situation. The innkeeper shook his head, grumbling. “Damn thoughtless creature,” he’d said, and ushered Jaskier into a seat near the kitchen. Jaskier wanted to protest, to speak up in Geralt’s defense, mention how careful Geralt had _been_ up to this point, but once he was seated and eating porridge and sausage, he had to admit he didn’t disagree.

Geralt _had_ been damn thoughtless, and Jaskier was still fucking angry.

The chores were hardly complicated, even for him. Washing breakfast dishes, helping boil water for laundry (which he was allowed to drop his own dirty clothes into, and pointedly did _not_ bring Geralt’s down for), helping hang the laundry to dry. Not exactly easy, nor the sorts of chores he’d ever had to do growing up, but it was something to pass the time, and made him at least feel _useful_ for the first time since the djinn. The innkeeper’s daughter was seventeen, sharp as a whip, and named Hanna. She kept up a steady, if not constant, commentary throughout the day, giving her thoughts on what she wanted from life, how well (or poorly) Jaskier was doing at following her directions, and various gossip and theories about passing townsfolk that they could see from the back yard of the inn. She got him to laugh more than once with her sharp commentary, and he felt if they could’ve had a proper conversation he would’ve enjoyed her even more. She even shared her lunch with him, half a small loaf of bread, a chunk of cheese, and an apple that she imperiously demanded he slice for them, which made him laugh yet again.

(She’d started singing at one point, in the absent way people did when they were doing a familiar task, and he’d faltered in his movements hanging the laundry on the line, his hands frozen in the process of pinning someone’s chemise up. He’d forgotten until that moment, despite not being able to answer her as she chatted, that he couldn’t sing anymore. It hit him like a punch to the chest and for a long moment he felt like he couldn’t breathe. Hanna hadn’t said anything, but she must have noticed, and she resumed talking about the exploits of her friend Maja instead of her song, and didn’t sing again. Jaskier felt guilty and grateful in equal measure for that.)

It was a good day, probably the first good day he’d had in… how long had it been, two weeks? Longer? The first good day since even before the lake, though he’d hoped briefly when he found Geralt that his day was getting better. More the fool him. But this day of feeling useful and not pitied was what he needed and Jaskier was very relaxed (if already sore and sweaty) by the time the late afternoon sun was warming him as he weeded the kitchen garden alone, Hanna having gone in to help start supper.

Or he _was_ relaxed until the door to the kitchen was thrown open with a loud _bang_ , and he briefly was grateful for his enforced silence because he can tell he would’ve just screeched embarrassingly otherwise. Geralt of _fucking_ Rivia was the culprit, looking tensed for a fight. Jaskier barely had time to wonder what could possibly have gone so wrong while he was outside that Geralt was looking like _that_ when Geralt’s eyes locked on him, kneeling in the dirt with his shirtsleeves rolled up and a weed in his hand, and the tension seemed to bleed out of him. Not that anyone but Jaskier or maybe another witcher would’ve noticed, as little changed, but the feeling that Geralt was readying himself for a dust up dissipated.

Jaskier obviously couldn’t _say_ anything, but that was very far from anything he expected to happen, and he raised an eyebrow, not otherwise moving.

“Ex _c_ _use_ me,” Hanna’s voice came from behind Geralt in the kitchen. “If you don’t mind, _sir witcher_ , we’re busy in here. Go out or come in, but don’t just _stand there_ all in the way!”

Geralt half-turned with a startled frown, and Jaskier couldn’t imagine the scathing look the girl must’ve been giving him that prompted him to simply grunt out a quiet “Sorry,” before stepping outside, closing the door behind him.

Jaskier almost laughed at the disconcerted expression on Geralt’s face in the wake of whatever look Hanna had subjected him to, before remembering why he was out here in the first place. Instead, he pressed his lips in a line, his good mood already fled in favor of lingering anger and resentment, and pointedly looked down and resumed weeding. Geralt walked closer and it occurred to Jaskier that he’d left his tablet upstairs after going to fetch his laundry, because he didn’t want to risk it getting lost or stepped on, and Hanna hadn’t needed it to get on just fine with him. Whatever conversation he had with Geralt right now was, by nature, going to be _extremely_ one-sided, as Jaskier both couldn’t talk to him and wasn’t speaking to him.

Geralt stopped at the edge of the garden plot, a few feet away from where Jaskier was kneeling, and just… _stood there_. Jaskier’d intended to just let him stew until he felt like speaking up, but eventually the silent looming got to Jaskier, and he left off the weeding to sit back on his heels and spread his arms. _What?_

“You weren’t there,” Geralt rumbled, an inscrutable and alien (to Jaskier, anyway, which was actually pretty strange) expression on his face. Jaskier frowned slightly, then pushed himself to his feet and brushed his hands off on his trousers, eyes never leaving Geralt’s face, and the expression he didn’t recognize.

“You weren’t there,” Geralt repeated after a few beats of silence, clearly struggling to get words out. “There was all the paper talking about how angry you were, and your lute was there, and the wax tablets were there, and it didn’t smell like you’d been there for hours.”

Oh. The shield around Jaskier's heart cracked a little bit. The big idiot had been _scared_. Of something having happened to him, maybe, or of him having left, or something Jaskier couldn't think of, but the point was that Geralt was _scared_ and had flipped out because of it, stormed the kitchen and threw open the back door to make sure Jaskier was there. There was “mad at him” and there was “being an ass to him”, so Jaskier softened and reached out a hand to put on one of the arms Geralt had crossed protectively in front of his chest. A soft little exhalation escaped Geralt’s lips, and Jaskier thought honestly if he was the sort of person who cried, Geralt might be crying from relief now. Jaskier had wanted Geralt to know and understand how angry he’d been last night, but he’d never really meant to scare or hurt him, so it was his turn to be soft and gentle. Not apologize for being mad, he refused to apologize for that sort of thing, but give him some kindness in apology for scaring him.

Jaskier looped his arm through Geralt’s, dirt and sweat and all, and tugged him back towards the door. Geralt let himself be led, not taking his eyes off Jaskier as they moved. Jaskier waved and smiled apologetically to Hanna and her mother as they cut quickly through the kitchen, and saw the disdainfully disappointed look the innkeeper shot Geralt as they passed, and then it was upstairs and into their room. The pages that had been scattered on every surface were more or less in a pile on the bed, like Geralt had grabbed each one of them, read it, then grabbed the next and the next, before dropping them and racing out to find him. Which… was probably what had happened.

The giant _idiot_.

Jaskier unlinked their arms to move the papers, dropping them to the side of the bed carelessly, because frankly they didn’t matter now that they’d been read, herded Geralt to the bed and pushed him to sit down, and then retrieved his tablet from the side table, rubbing his hands on his trousers again to keep any dirt from getting ground into the wax.

 **You’re an idiot,** was the first thing Jaskier wrote, turned around to show Geralt with fond exasperation. Geralt opened his mouth to respond and Jaskier held a finger up to stop him, adding more under it. **And an ass.** Geralt huffed, frustrated, and scowled slightly.

" _Jaskier_."

Oh, fine, he’d go faster and stop just listing things that Geralt, patently and provably, was. **I’m angry, not stupid. What did you think happened?**

“I don’t know,” Geralt grumbled with a faint grimace, not looking up at Jaskier’s face. “The papers were ripped out of your journal. The messages seemed… desperate.”

Jaskier sighed and sat on the bed next to Geralt, tucking one leg up under him, and smoothed the wax before starting in on a longish message.

 **You didn’t look when I had a message to show you. This is my voice right now. I can’t shout. Maybe throw it at your head but it might break. And you didn’t think about how I would pay for anything, which was what I was trying to ask you. But you didn’t look. You can’t not look, Geralt.** His handwriting wasn’t great, admittedly, especially writing smaller, but it was readable when he held it out to Geralt.

“Hm,” Geralt handed the tablet back, and Jaskier started smoothing the wax again. “I’m… sorry. It was thoughtless. You could’ve gotten hurt.” He sounded sincere to Jaskier’s ears, if a bit reluctant. Jaskier knew Geralt struggled to talk about his own feelings, let alone his _fears_. Jaskier had never known Geralt to talk about his fears, and while he hadn’t said so explicitly, the _fear_ that Jaskier could’ve gotten hurt, and it would’ve been Geralt’s fault, seemed like an obvious jump from what he’d said. And really, it made sense. Geralt considered what happened to Jaskier’s voice his fault. It would be him failing Jaskier _again_ if anything but a truly spectacular meltdown and some laundry had happened while Geralt had been gone.

Jaskier bumped his shoulder up against Geralt’s as he wrote, Geralt leaning in a little to watch the letters forming, and Jaskier’s breath almost hitched from the smell of him so close in his space (even the sweat and horse that permeated him). **Forgiven if you never do it again. Promise?**

“I promise,” Geralt responded even before Jaskier finished writing, solemn as anything. “I’ll always look. If it needs to wait, I’ll say. But I promise I’ll look.”

Jaskier patted Geralt’s knee in acceptance and smiled. **Good. Dinner.** He stood, then stopped on his way to the door to quickly add, **I earned dinner tonight. You can pay for baths.** He showed Geralt and gave him a smug, cheeky grin, and Geralt’s eyes flicked from the tablet to his face and met his eyes without response for just a moment too long to be entirely comfortable. Then the moment passed, and Geralt pushed himself to his feet.

“All right,” he agreed. “You look like you’ve been rolling in the mud all day, you could use one.” He chuckled at Jaskier’s indignant expression and got a smack upside the head with the tablet as they made their way back downstairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JASKIER FINALLY HAS A GOOD DAY!!!! _AND_ lets himself get angry with the goddamn bitch of an unsatisfactory situation he's found himself in, and with Geralt for being an ass. I'm very proud of him.
> 
> As always, I can be found for being screamed at over on tumblr at [@bygodstillam](http://bygodstillam.tumblr.com)


	5. your voice it carries over the hubbub and the hum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from "Elsa's Song" by The Amazing Devil

Mahakam’s capital was _loud_.

It was to be expected, obviously, Jaskier knew that. Geralt had explained, in bits here and there, why exactly they had such a robust signal language. The foundries and bells in Mount Carbon alone had cost a number of workers their hearing, so in turn they’d taken the idea of hand signals and turned it into what was, essentially, a complete language. And that’s what he and Geralt were, hopefully, going to learn, so that he could have his words back, if not his music. Jaskier found himself thinking of it more as something to look forward to as time went on, because he had so many. He had stretches when they all choked him trying to escaped or disappeared entirely, and he retreated to foggy drifting or lost an hour or so, staring at nothing while still apparently _doing_ things, but they were coming less often, for less time. Which was good, because Geralt was always frowning and sad when he came back.

Geralt had stopped, the day they finally got to the capital, and put wax in his ears, and Jaskier’d wondered about it right up until they finally actually _reached_ the bridge to the city.

It was so loud even to him, even echoing out the gate and across the Langbridge, that there was no way in hell Geralt would’ve been able to function, with his witcher senses.

The guards at the gate were suspicious, heavily-armored dwarves who did not look particularly like they’d let them in without a damn good reason and possibly a bribe. Mahakam held her secrets close to the chest, it was how they’d managed to keep such a tight hold on their domination of the iron and steel industries, nevermind weaponsmithing, but it meant that it was _extremely_ difficult to gain access as an outsider, especially for a long-term stay. They’d only managed to get through to even _reach_ Mount Carbon because of Geralt being a witcher, most likely, which didn’t bode well for actually getting what they were hoping.

Jaskier hoped Geralt would be able to charm the guards, since the biggest contribution he could hope to provide was a smile that he was pretty confident he couldn’t quite get past “crooked and nervous”. It _really_ didn’t help that Geralt had that “getting ready to argue with someone who doesn’t want to pay him” look on his face (and really it infuriated Jaskier, in the back of his mind, that he’d seen that face often enough to recognize it), and now Jaskier was imagining being turned away and refused the opportunity to learn how to _let his words out_ and he couldn’t make himself keep walking, and he couldn’t _breathe-_ –

There was a sudden heavy weight on his shoulder and he startled out of his spiral to find Geralt’s hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly. “It’ll be fine,” Geralt rumbled, and Jaskier was rather sure for a moment that it was less a promise and more of a threat. Not to him, but to… the guards, Mahakam, the universe at large; Jaskier wasn’t sure, but it was reassuring anyway.

Geralt didn’t make threats lightly. Not real ones, anyway.

Jaskier managed to find a smile in him, shaky but sincere, and nodded in response, which made something soften fleetingly in Geralt’s eyes. He released Jaskier’s shoulder and strode forward, leading Roach, Jaskier hanging back a few steps fidgeting with the hem of his doublet and rubbing his thumb over his fingers to try to get out a little of his excess energy. This is exactly why he’d left his tablets in the saddlebags as they approached - with this level of nervous energy, it probably would’ve gone flying, and _then_ where would he be?

“On official business?” one of the dwarves asked gruffly as Geralt approached. “Don’t remember hearing anyone put out a contract.”

“Personal business, actually,” Geralt said, coming obligingly to a halt just shy of being threatening. “Had a friend get hit with a curse that’s left him mute.” he gestured behind him, and Jaskier waved and tried to smile charmingly. Nope, he could already tell, it was more of that kind of half-sick smile when you’re hungover and might vomit and are trying your best not to. Well, he’d tried. Maybe the clear discomfort and nerves would work in their advantage.

It didn’t appear to be, however, given the way the guard’s eyes narrowed looking at him. “And how’s that led you here?” The guard asked Geralt after looking Jaskier over.

“Did a job here a few decades back,” Geralt said. “Saw the hand signs some of the deaf folks use. Someone told me it’s basically a full language.”

The guard only raises an eyebrow, not making any move to give them access to the city. Geralt sighed, frustrated, and made a face that Jaskier knew meant he wanted to pinch the bridge of his nose. It probably didn’t help that the sounds were almost certainly piercing even through the wax stoppering his ears.

" _Listen_ ," Geralt growled, clearly close to losing his temper, and Jaskier impulsively stepped forward and grabbed his elbow. Geralt looked down at him, startled, and Jaskier smiled encouragingly (crooked and scared, but encouraging). Geralt took a deep breath and turned back to the guard, who seemed to be watching their little interaction with slightly less immediate distrust. “Listen,” Geralt repeated, but as a proper word, and not just a shape of snarling. “He’s a storyteller. A _bard_. And he had his _voice_ taken. He needs to be able to communicate. And I need to be able to understand.”

It warmed Jaskier’s heart a tiny bit, to hear him say that. It’s not that he hadn’t already known that was the plan - learn this and then go on the road together, because using hand signs wouldn’t mean much of anything if there wasn’t someone who _understood_ them. Still. Hearing Geralt say he _needed_ to be able to understand Jaskier felt good, even if it wasn’t the same kind of need Jaskier wanted it to be.

The guard looked between them for a long moment, then nodded. “You’ll have to go speak to the Elder,” the guard said. “Make your case.” He gestured to two of the other guards, who stepped forward. “They’ll take you. Don’t stray, witcher.” Jaskier started to step forward, before Geralt even could, and the guard cleared his throat. Jaskier stopped, uncertainly flicking his gaze from the guard to Geralt.

Geralt growled, low and soft. “Just me,” he said, not even really a question. The guard nodded confirmation that Geralt clearly hadn’t needed, and Jaskier felt a sharp spike of panic returning. Geralt turned to Jaskier and held out the reins, which Jaskier took on instinct. “Stay with Roach,” he said, clearly irritated. “I won’t be long.”

But he didn’t turn away just yet, eyes scanning Jaskier’s face, and then he let out a sharp breath. “Jaskier,” he said, his voice suddenly so much softer even though the tight lines of anger still shaped the way he held himself. It helped, to hold on to his name shaped like that from Geralt’s mouth, and Jaskier took a deep breath to try to steady himself. “Stay with Roach,” he repeated, firm but still so painfully soft in a way that Jaskier couldn’t let himself think about. Jaskier nodded, and pressed a hand to Roach’s neck to ground himself in the warmth and movement of muscles under her skin.

“Sir witcher!” one of the guards snapped, clearly getting impatient. Geralt grimaced, but still stayed focused on Jaskier.

“Do you need to say anything before I go?” he asked seriously, and Jaskier felt like he had a bonfire in his chest from the question, so pointedly and deliberately in contrast to the last time they’d separated. Jaskier shook his head, then made a shooing motion to get Geralt moving.

He thought, maybe, he caught the ghost of a smile on Geralt’s face as he turned to go.

Jaskier turned, before he was out of sight, to press his head to Roach’s shoulder, letting her mane tickle at his nose when she turned back to lip at his shirt, looking for the little treats he’d taken to carrying as a way to befriend the particular mare. They _were_ friends now, which he wasn’t sure if Geralt liked or not, but he still kept sugar cubes or bits of carrot or apple slices on him a lot. _Not today_ , he wanted to say to her. _I’m such an idiot for falling for your master_ , also. _I don’t know if my heart can handle much more kindness from him_ , to finish

“Just a precaution,” the guard Geralt had spoken with said after Geralt and his chaperones had disappeared out of sight into the mountain, and Jaskier was unprepared to process anyone else speaking.

He frowned slightly and tilted his head at the guard as he pulled his forehead from where he’d rested it on Roach. Should he get his tablet, he wondered, or was that clear enough for people who didn’t know him? What did that mean? Were they about to _shackle_ him or something?

“Outsiders who haven’t been invited,” the guard clarified, his tone more conversational than he’d been with Geralt. “One of the party can, with good reason, make their case to the Elder to be granted leave to stay, either in the city itself or in Mahakam in general. Be a bit difficult for you or the horse to make it, so…”

Realization hit him like a wave of warm relief, pouring down his head and shoulders, and he sagged a bit with it. The guard was trying to be reassuring, had seen Jaskier’s stress at being separated from Geralt in such an uncertain situation. And Geralt was fine, because it was normal to send people in alone to see their Elder, to help keep their secrets. He flashed a grateful smile to the guard, then glanced around for an out-of-the-way place to wait for Geralt to get back.

There really _wasn’t_ one, since the gates were at the end of a long stone bridge, and Roach could probably stand to have a little time to graze. Jaskier waved a little to get the guard’s attention, though he didn’t seem to need to, as the guard was attentive as soon as he’d turned back to them. He wasn’t sure if it was him doing his job or him trying to make things easier for Jaskier. Jaskier gestured to himself and Roach, then pointed back down the bridge, then mimed… well, _sleeping_ , even if he meant rest.

“Should be safe enough for you and the horse to be out there,” the guard said, nodding. “We’ve patrols that’ll come by fairly regularly. I’ll let your witcher know you’re out there, when he comes back out.”

Jaskier nodded gratefully, waved again, and started to walk Roach back across the bridge, trying not to feel a thrum of pleasure at hearing Geralt described as _his_ witcher.

The grass was sparse, when they got to the area past the bridge, but Roach seemed happy enough with it. Jaskier knew she was well-behaved but tied her reins to a low tree branch anyway, just in case. The view was beautiful, mountains and distant mines and the faint echo of the foundries barely reaching him on the wind.

It was so silent that each noise there _was_ felt amplified, the soft creak of Roach’s saddle as she shifted, the crunching of grass in her teeth, the wind rushing past him, his heartbeat in his ears. It was somehow _so much_ despite being not much of anything at all. He’d always drowned out the silence with music and song. It helped him focus his wandering thoughts, gave him something to narrow the world to so that he didn’t try to hear and think everything, and it hadn’t been too bad until the last couple of days, as the fog in his mind stopped rolling in. As much as he’d hated the feeling of not being able to think _at all_ … well, it had forced his mind to not go into overdrive. And even if he wasn’t talking, somehow Geralt’s presence helped offset it all.

He grimaced as Roach moved one of her feet, the sound of the ground under her hoof jarring and sharp, and rubbed his thumb over his fingers.

His lute case sat strapped to Roach’s saddle, and even though the thought of playing without being able to sing still sat like molten iron in his stomach and ribs, he was going to have some kind of meltdown if he had to sit here in silence until Geralt came back.

He unstrapped it slowly, handling it gingerly, like it might burn him, then sat on a rock and, carefully, so carefully, unlatched the case and lifted his lute out and set it in his lap.

It shouldn’t feel strange for Jaskier to hold his lute, but it did. It had only been a few weeks, but he hadn’t played _once_ . He couldn’t remember a day between first _really_ learning the lute and the djinn that he hadn’t played at least a _little_ , and yet here he was, feeling almost like he wasn’t allowed to play.

He glanced over at Roach for encouragement. She didn’t seem at all interested in anything he was doing. _Well thanks for the help,_ he thought, and went through the familiar movements of beginning to get his lute in tune. He started to hum a familiar, long-practiced note to help him quickly get the first string in tune, and his hands stilled.

It was such a little thing, he thought, suddenly clutching the lute like it was the only thing tethering him to the mountain. It was such a _little_ thing to both forget and be this upset over. He didn’t _need_ to hum, he knew the tuning as well as he knew the feeling of swirling thoughts in his mind when it was starting to race. But he couldn’t quite bring himself to continue after that.

It was such a _little_ thing to be this upset by.

( _He_ was such a little thing without his voice.)

He didn’t want to be this upset, but tears started to streak down his cheeks anyway. He couldn’t _move_ , until one landed on the lute itself, and he instinctively used his sleeve to dry the spot, and then he could move again, and put the lute - a bit too roughly - back in its case, not bothering to properly close or latch it.

Then he turned his back on it and sat on the rock, swiping bitterly at his tears, and waited.

* * *

It probably wasn’t _that_ long before Jaskier heard footsteps on the path behind him and Roach nickered in that way she only did for Geralt, maybe an hour at most. It had felt like _days_. Jaskier had evolved from sitting and staring into the distance trying not to cry to throwing rocks into the distance and trying not to cry.

Geralt didn’t say anything. Jaskier could swear he _felt_ Geralt’s eyes burning on him, standing next to the lute case while Jaskier bent down for another rock to fling inexpertly into the trees further down the mountain. But he didn’t say anything, not about the lute or the meeting with the Elder or _anything_ , and Jaskier wished he would, wished he would break the damn _silence_ , because _he couldn’t_.

Instead, he heard the soft sounds of his lute being properly seated in its case, the case being latched, and carried over to Roach. Jaskier threw another rock, and the faint sound of the rock’s landing was blocked by the sounds of Roach’s packs being re-tied and adjusted, to secure the lute in place.

Why wasn’t Geralt _saying_ anything?

Jaskier threw another rock.

“Your technique’s shit,” came Geralt’s voice rumbling low right behind him. Jaskier jumped, startled that Geralt had gotten so close without him hearing, and Geralt’s hand shot out to steady him so he wouldn’t fall. He pressed his hand over his heart and _glowered_ at Geralt, so the witcher would know exactly how much he did _not_ appreciate being startled like that.

Geralt didn’t seem to be bothered, just looked down at him with an expression that, for once, Jaskier had no idea how to read. Jaskier’s glower faltered. Geralt put another rock in his hand and turned him around to face the direction he’d been. “Pull your arm back like this,” Geralt said, nudging Jaskier’s arm into the right position. Jaskier felt like he couldn’t breathe, for once in a way that was _entirely_ delicious. Geralt stilled for a second, probably assessing Jaskier’s form, then backed off a few steps.

“Okay,” Geralt rumbled. “Now lead with your elbow.”

Might as well, Jaskier thought, and threw.

The rock went easily half again as far as any of the others Jaskier had thrown, and frankly, he was a little proud of that. He turned to Geralt with a grin, to see that same unreadable expression on it as before, but with the tiniest quirk of a smile.

“We’ll work on it,” he said, untied Roach’s reins, and started down the road. “Come on. We’re staying in a village an hour or so away. They’ve got some folks who teach.” Jaskier trotted a bit to match Geralt’s long stride, feeling almost - finally - like he wasn’t drowning at all.

It didn’t occur to him for a good half an hour that with one rock Geralt had, quite effectively, distracted him from his frustration and anger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who me, writing ADHD shit that I identify with into my Jaskier!AU? It's more likely than you think.
> 
> Thank all of y'all for sticking around and being so free with your excitement and praise! It means the world to me, thank you so much <3 <3 <3!!!!!!


	6. keep running, it's up to you now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit shorter than I intended it to be, but I realized the next bit is going to be _long_ , so I thought I'd rather post an update now and put it in a new chapter than make y'all wait. 😊
> 
> Chapter title from "Love Run" by The Amazing Devil

Their teacher was a middle-aged halfling woman named Rose, and she was an absolute terror.

They took up residence in a boarding house of sorts in the town they were directed to, that was thankfully not built to dwarven proportions in _all_ respects, and they did various chores and other needed tasks to pay their way in between lessons.

It wasn’t really anything like what Jaskier was expecting, to be honest. He’d expected… something else. Something harder, he thinks. He’d expected to be slaving away over repeated motions and confusion, and watching Geralt apply himself only when necessary. In retrospect, that was unfair of him to assume, but it remained in his head for some weeks until it really sank in.

Geralt wasn’t going to leave. Geralt wasn’t _planning_ to leave, at least not without Jaskier. They both worked as general laborers for their room and board, and Geralt worked almost more diligently than Jaskier at learning to sign, and stayed and stayed and stayed.

And spoke and spoke and spoke.

It could’ve just been practice. Throwing himself into learning to sign, so he could understand Jaskier, would make sense for Geralt to practice as often as he could, the same way he learned to fight or to identify monsters or to brew his potions. But as they gained knowledge and vocabulary, Jaskier found that Geralt would sign things that were… unnecessary.

Things like: _"That boy keeps mooning over the blacksmith’s daughter. He doesn’t stand a chance, her attention’s on the laundress."_

Or: _"Do you want me to stew or roast the venison tonight?"_

Or: _"I saw it and thought of you."_

Or: _"That cloud looks like a rabbit."_

Or: _"I don’t know why, I just thought it would make you smile."_

Rose put them through their paces, adding and adding to their vocabularies every day, and telling them that they shouldn’t use any other form of communication if they could help it. Geralt shouldn’t speak (not a difficult prospect, admittedly) and Jaskier shouldn’t write (much more difficult). But… it helped. They learned, and Jaskier found it all getting easier and easier, found even poetic thoughts coming faster and looser from his hands. It was like being freed, and as he learned, he found that the suffocating feeling of his words pressing in his throat came less and less often.

The most unexpected part of it all, though, was still the fact that Geralt was actually… _talkative_ , like this. Jaskier spent months just _drowning_ in Geralt’s words. Apparently making speech something _physical_ , rather than verbal, was all it took to unlock Geralt’s thoughts and opinions. Rose explained as they learned how much facial expressions and the emphaticness of the signs themselves were part of the language, and Jaskier found himself graced with an abundance of expression.

When Geralt was angry or irritated, he got that crease between his eyebrows and his signs were sharp and small, the bare minimum of movement to express his thought. When he was feeling things strongly, his signs got bigger and more expansive. When he was teasing Jaskier, there was a looseness to him, and a quirk of his lips. It was overwhelming, and Jaskier couldn’t quite believe it was really happening.

But it was. But it did. It wasn’t _often_ , admittedly, but it was more often than had ever happened before. Geralt seemed almost _glad_ to let go of any sort of audible communication, as they grew in skill, and the two of them signed… a lot.

Jaskier was feeling a lot.

Geralt said, comparatively, a _lot_.

They’d spent just over a year in Mahakan before Jaskier’s grasp of sign met whatever threshold Geralt was comfortable with.

 _"If we go now,"_ Geralt signed, even though he _could_ speak, and somehow Jaskier always came back to that, and how uncertain he felt about Geralt foregoing speech when it was _right there_ for him to use, _"do you feel you know enough to speak the way you want?"_

It was the most thoughtful, awful, obnoxious, amazing thing anyone had ever asked him, and Jaskier wasn’t sure _how_ he felt, to be honest, but he wasn’t willing to let things fall to the wayside because of him.

 _"If we don’t know the official Mahakan sign for a word,"_ Jaskier signed back, _"then we can make our own."_ It was a lot to ask, but Jaskier wanted to _travel_. He loved Rose and he loved this little village, but it wasn’t where either of them were meant to be. He wanted what they knew to be enough.

It was enough for Geralt, too, apparently. The next day, Geralt packed their things on Roach, Jaskier crouched to kiss Rose on the cheek and signed his thank yous even as she tried to shove extra supplies in his hands with verbal admonitions to write her and come back to visit someday if their travels brought them back this way.

It was strange, being back on the road after so long, but it felt like coming home. Geralt rode Roach, Jaskier walked next to them, and even though he couldn’t hum a tune or play his lute Jaskier felt a weight lift off his chest that he hadn’t realized was still there. He sped up a bit, so he was in front of Roach, scanned for any large rocks or dips in the road he might trip on, and when he felt like there was at least a _short_ stretch of relatively smooth road, he turned to face Geralt, flicking a little wave to be sure he had Geralt’s attention before he started to sign.

_"So what’s the plan? Do you think there will be any contracts for you before we leave Mahakam?"_

“Watch the road, Jaskier,” Geralt rumbled, but there wasn’t a hint of bite to it. Jaskier was _just_ too far away to tell if he had that tiny quirk of his lips that meant he was smiling, but it seemed likely. The thought of it made a spot under Jaskier’s chest feel warm and safe. He rolled his eyes melodramatically, though, and threw up his hands in surrender as he turned back to face the road.

It was funny almost, how over a year ago, Jaskier would’ve assumed the conversation was over. And it might’ve been, too, if he was being honest with himself. But now the admonition was simply acknowledging that Jaskier wasn’t _deaf_ , Geralt could speak perfectly adequately, and if Jaskier tripped on a loose stone, he’d fall flat on his ass and possibly rip his trousers.

“Probably won’t be contracts until we reach Aedirn,” Geralt said behind him, and Jaskier couldn’t quite hide the smile that stretched across his face at the sound. “Earn a bit of coin to tide us over. Then we start looking for a cure.”

Geralt sounded firm, but Jaskier grimaced despite himself, pleased mood gone and a tired sort of frustration sinking into his bones.

They’d had the argument a lot, in recent weeks. While Jaskier was absolutely not opposed to finding a way to get his voice back, so much of the pain of having lost it was mitigated by being able to sign. Not all of it, he thought, pushing back thoughts of his lute, sitting largely unused in its case on Roach’s saddle. He’d managed to pull it out a few times over the last year, to check it for damage, clean it, so a quick tuning to make sure it was at least _close_ to properly tuned, to make sure it was ready. He hadn’t _played_ , but…

But _mostly_ he was all right, and it was easier to get by and not feel like he was drowning in unsaid words. And in Jaskier’s opinion, it would be easier if they worked more, saved up the money, and _then_ went looking when they ran into a promising lead. But _Geralt_ kept saying that the most important thing was finding a way to get Jaskier’s voice back, and damn the effort. Which was a nice sentiment that had meant _everything_ to Jaskier when they’d first come to Mahakam, but _now_ it seemed reckless and silly.

Now he wasn’t sure what he wanted. He wanted to feel comfortable playing again. He wanted to stay practiced in his playing, if not in his singing. He wanted to at least write the _melodies_ of a song that he would sing one day when he had his voice back. He wanted his voice back. He wanted his voice, he wanted his music.

He wanted _Geralt_.

But mostly at this moment he wanted to _not_ run himself ragged over the ensuing months trying to keep up with Geralt’s attempts to frantically find a cure for something that he could, for the time being, bear with relative ease. Following leads was one thing, moving at a breakneck pace to try to _find_ leads, which is what he was pretty sure Geralt intended to do, was a whole other thing.

But it was a conversation best saved for when Jaskier could talk at length without having to walk backwards. He could try again when they made camp.

* * *

_"We should save up some extra coin before we go on any wild hunts for something that can break djinn magic,"_ Jaskier signed once they set camp for the night.

“Hmm,” Geralt said, and looked down at his sword. He’d kept both swords well-maintained and sharp, but he seemed to take comfort in the usual evening ritual on the road of checking the edges at least.

Jaskier rolled his eyes fondly and snapped his fingers twice to get Geralt to look up. He did, promptly, which still sent a little thrill down Jaskier’s spine even after a year of using it as a communication tool when he couldn’t reach Geralt to tap his knee or shoulder.

 _"Words, Geralt,"_ Jaskier signed, fondness overcoming his frustration and exasperation. He might be better at talking about things in _general_ now, but his own emotions were still difficult.

Geralt grunted, but re-sheathed his sword to free up his hands. _"Sorry."_ He didn’t sign anything else for a long moment, but Jaskier could tell he was thinking, rather than moving on. It was such a lovely thing, that thoughtful and worried expression. The little crease between his eyebrows, his lips pursed, his eyes on the fire as he turned his words over in his head… Jaskier could burst from how much he loved the familiarity of this expression.

How much he loved that the rest of the world would just see a frown, but Jaskier got to spend enough time with him to know the truth.

 _"I don’t understand,"_ Geralt signed finally, his movements compact and minimal. _"Why don’t you want to find a cure?"_ His eyes snapped up to… well, not up to Jaskier’s face, but to his chest, about where his hands would be when he responded.

Jaskier sighed. _"I do want to find a cure,"_ he signed, keeping his movements a little slower than necessary to emphasize how much he was _trying_ to stay patient about this, since he didn’t want _another_ repeat of this argument. _"I just don’t want that to be all we do."_

Geralt clenched his jaw, and Jaskier could see him gearing up for the same argument he’d been making for weeks. _Your music is important to you. Your voice is important to you. This is at least somewhat my fault. I want you to have it back. I need to fix it._ Jaskier huffed quietly, frowning, and covered his eyes with a hand. Geralt never seemed quite able to make this argument verabally, so not _seeing_ him was as good a way as any to avoid the rest of the fight that he didn’t want to be having.

“Jaskier,” Geralt grumbled, barely managing to grit it out from the sounds of it.

Jaskier kept his eyes clothes but removed his hand so he could (a bit sloppily, since he couldn’t see where his hands actually were) sign back to him.

 _"I don’t want to have this fight again."_ There was enough silence that Jaskier worried that Geralt hadn’t seen him, so he cracked one eye open.

And then opened them both and stood to make his way around to the other side of the fire and sit on a log next to Geralt, who sat with his head hanging down and his whole posture just wilted and slumped over. Jaskier reached out to lightly tap Geralt’s knee twice, and despite the fact that it seemed to take more effort than it should’ve, the witcher lifted his head so he could see Jaskier and his hands. Jaskier offered him a small smile.

 _"There’s only one dramatic bitch legally allowed per traveling party, I’m afraid,"_ he signed, trying to keep his smile more fond and teasing than wry. Geralt didn’t need to know that Jaskier often still legitimately felt overly dramatic about everything. He was helping too much for Jaskier to want to put that on him. _"You’ll have to just cheer up some so we don’t break the law and get ourselves arrested."_

“Hmm,” Geralt said, and didn’t seem cheered up at all by Jaskier’s attempt at lightening the mood. Given this particular conversation, it was probably just the fact that he was doing it in sign, instead of out loud. Probably. Jaskier hoped that was all, anyway. He tapped Geralt’s knee again, though the man’s head was still lifted, to make sure he was paying attention.

 _"We can talk about it later,"_ Jaskier allowed, a little reluctantly. _"I just don’t want to fight again."_

Geralt sighed, and pushed himself to his feet. “Gotta catch dinner,” he rumbled, but paused long enough to squeeze Jaskier’s shoulder before getting his things and heading into the rocky hillsides in search of something to cook for dinner, to let their supplies last longer. Jaskier sighed and looked over where Roach was staked, calmly munching on her evening oats before the boys even _started_ dinner, because she was spoiled rotten.

 _I bet he wouldn’t push_ **_you_ ** _too hard if you were cursed,_ he thought at Roach with no malice. _He’d probably stable you somewhere nice until he could find someone to help you._ The horse wuffed and flicked her ears towards him, as if she could hear his thoughts, and Jaskier smiled faintly.

It wasn’t like he’d enjoy being stabled up somewhere nice, anyway. Jaskier would just wait until they stopped in Aedirn. Maybe by then he would have some new arguments to convince Geralt that they should just get back to how life was before.

Or as close as they could get, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You all absolutely _must_ see this [amazing art](https://mail-me-a-snail.tumblr.com/post/617496647371538432/geralt-was-holding-him-all-but-cradled-against) by [mail-me-a-snail](http://mail-me-a-snail.tumblr.com) on tumblr. It's one of the softer moments from chapter 3 with Jaskier dissociating and Geralt cuddling him back to awareness, and it is ENTIRELY the reason this chapter went up today!
> 
> Just goes to show that things like comments, asks, messages, fanart (!!!!!?!?!??!) etc showing authors how much you like their work? Is a fantastic motivator and inspiration for authors to give you MORE.
> 
> So remember: your comments give me life and I love each and every one of you!
> 
> Come scream at me [on tumblr](http://bygodstillam.tumblr.com) if you need to!


	7. i know exactly what i want

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Jaskier finally communicate about important things. And also have baths.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW OKAY IT'S BEEN A MONTH HOW YOU GUYS DOING?
> 
> I hope this was worth the wait? ヾ(￣▽￣;;)
> 
> Chapter title is from "Fair" by The Amazing Devil.

The border with Aedirn wasn't too far from where they'd been staying in Mahakam, and Jaskier and Geralt crossed into Aedirn and finally stopped in a town with a notice board and a small inn. Jaskier almost laughed when he flopped back on the bed, just briefly, while dropping off their things before getting something hot to eat. 

_"I'm out of practice,"_ he signed with a melodramatic sigh, even though he knew signing towards the ceiling would make most of what he said incoherent, if Geralt was even paying attention. For once, Jaskier didn't mind if he was looking, though - he signed more to fill the silence, metaphorically, than have an actual conversation. It was comfortable. _"I don't remember needing an inn quite this bad before. I'm getting old, Geralt. I ought to be a grandfather."_

"Didn't catch most of that," Geralt rumbled from the doorway, sounding faintly amused. "But you're not that old."

Jaskier pushed himself up enough to stick his tongue out petulantly, even though he knew it would undermine his oh-so-reasonable argument for his own elderly status. Geralt's eyes crinkled, even if he kept his mouth schooled to neutrality.

 _"We need to eat, Jaskier,"_ Geralt signed, his expression a study in someone trying to hide their fondness behind irritation. It wasn't going too well for him, in Jaskier's opinion.

 _"I can't!"_ Jaskier gestured dramatically. _"Too old and creaky to go down the stairs! I'll waste away!"_ And with that he flopped back again on the bed.

It really _was_ comfortable, though. Maybe skipping dinner to curl up on an actual mattress - straw was still better than dirt - wouldn't be so bad.

Unfortunately, Geralt did not seem to share either Jaskier's propensity for dramatic exaggeration or a desire to allow Jaskier to curl up on the bed for an hour, because suddenly there was an arm around Jaskier's waist and without any fanfare or apparent effort, Geralt hauled him off the bed and set him on his feet.

And, indignity of that aside, Jaskier had to struggle to keep breathing, because it was one thing to know how strong Geralt was and another entirely to be so thoroughly manhandled. 

Another very sexy thing entirely.

"Food," Geralt said firmly. "Ale. Checking the noticeboard for contracts."

 _"Fine, fine,"_ Jaskier signed, straightening his clothes from the manhandling as they stepped out of their room and headed downstairs. _"I already grabbed the most likely contenders, while you got Roach settled,"_ he added, patting the pocket he'd tucked them in. Geralt could peruse them while they ate. It was only three, and at least one of them seemed like an overly paranoid farmer with a few feral dogs, as far as Jaskier could tell, but he'd grabbed it just in case.

At the bottom of the stairs, Jaskier hesitated, glancing from the table he could already tell Geralt would prefer to the proprietress standing behind the small counter that passed as a bar. If Geralt ordered, there was a non-zero chance that they would get the worst and oldest of the food, the ale from a barrel a dead rat had been found a few days before, that sort of thing. Jaskier hated it, but it still happened from time to time, and they'd never much come to this part of Aedirn together, and the locals hadn't seemed particularly friendly, even if they weren't actively hostile.

"Jaskier?" Geralt asked from just behind him. Jaskier turned and smiled reassuringly, patting Geralt's shoulder lightly.

_"Nothing. Come translate for me?"_

Geralt frowned, clearly confused, but nodded anyway, and Jaskier decided that was good enough. He dragged Geralt over to the proprietress and smiled widely at her, even as she eyed them suspiciously.

This would be fine. Proof of concept, that even with Geralt voicing his words, he could still charm the socks off of people. 

He started signing, half angled to Geralt so the witcher could see his signs clearly.

"Hello, ma'am," Geralt said, a little haltingly. "My name is Jaskier, and this is my dear friend, the witcher Geralt of... oh, Rivia." Geralt sounded faintly embarrassed for having stumbled over his own name, and pointedly refused to look at the woman even if her suspicious look was shifting towards confusion and curiosity as she flicked her eyes between the two of them.

"Please forgive me for requiring translation," Geralt continued in his usual dry monotone, nothing that matched the words he was saying or the tone of Jaskier's own signing. "I am unable to speak loud— _out_ loud. Right. Hmm. We were hoping for supper and drinks, if it wouldn't be too much trouble."

Jaskier, frankly, had to say he was proud of Geralt. He knew the other man didn't enjoy speaking much of the time, but if he was the only one who could translate Jaskier to the rest of the world, he'd have to get used to it, and tone aside, Jaskier thought he was doing well.

The proprietress blinked a bit, and pointed at Jaskier. "So... _you're_ the one sayin' this, with your hands, aye?" Jaskier nodded enthusiastically with a wide smile. "Huh," she said. "Ain't that a sight. Always thought them gnomes what come through sometimes were the only ones who did that. Never thought it was actual talking."

"It is," Geralt translated again, a small frown of concentration on his face. Jaskier wanted to kiss it from sheer fondness. He didn't, but he wanted to. "My friend is not used to translating yet. Very sorry to use you for practice."

"Well," she said, finally settling on mildly curious and a little warmer at seeing Geralt's concentration and Jaskier's enthusiasm. "Guess you gotta start somewhere. Got stew and yesterday's bread, that suit?"

"Yes, thank you." Geralt's translation continued. Jaskier's smile was wider than he normally would've bothered for something so simple, but really, he _did_ have to account for Geralt's low rumble after all. "We appreciate it."

Jaskier patted Geralt on the shoulder, pleased and proud of their joint effort, bowed dramatically to the woman behind the counter, and set off for the table he knew Geralt would prefer.

"...Thanks," he heard Geralt add quietly before following.

 _"We might make a charmer of you yet, Geralt!"_ Jaskier signed once they were both seated. Geralt glowered, though it was a bit half-hearted even for him.

 _"Do you have to use so many words to say what you want to say?"_ Geralt responded in sign. _"I'm not good at talking and that was... not fun."_

Jaskier could understand that, and reached over to briefly pat Geralt's hand in sympathy. _"I'm going to need you to do that a lot, I'm afraid. But at least you don't have to think of your own things to say, just repeat what I'm signing."_

Geralt grumbled something unintelligible as their ales were brought over, and a quick sip reassured Jaskier that while it wasn't the greatest quality-wise, there was no odd taste to it that made him think there had been any bodily fluids added or anything had died in the barrel. 

_"Speak up or sign it,"_ Jaskier signed pointedly.

 _"It's still a lot of words to say very little,"_ Geralt replied, then started nursing his ale. He was sulking a bit, Jaskier thought, but he never quite took his eyes off of Jaskier's face and hands, so he was welcome to it.

 _"It's called charm, Geralt, and it apparently works even through your grumble if I'm there signing."_ Jaskier smiled. _"Got us beer without spit or dead rat, didn't it?"_

Geralt pressed his lips together and let out a huff of breath through his nose, and Jaskier knew his point had been made successfully. And since he was behaving rather well, Jaskier took pity on him and turned to something a little easier for Geralt to process.

He placed three slips of paper from the noticeboard in front of Geralt. 

_"I think one might just be some feral dogs, but might be wargs coming down from the mountain. The drowners are probably real, and the other one sounded a little like a leshy, maybe? Thought it best to grab it just in case."_ Jaskier explained, and was gratified that Geralt kept his eyes on Jaskier's hands until he was done explaining why he'd grabbed those particular three notices.

"Hmm. Even one warg would do more damage than this," Geralt said thoughtfully, setting aside the first notice. "I'll tell him to set out some traps and he should be fine. Drowners, probably straightforward, might be ghouls, though. Right near the cemetery out of town." He frowned thoughtfully at the last one as their food arrived.

A tap on Geralt's wrist brought the witcher's eyes back up to Jaskier's. 

_"Why the frown?"_

"Hmm," Geralt said, and dutifully tore off a piece of day-old bread to dip in his stew, chewing and swallowing. 

"Probably not a leshy," Geralt continued eventually with a shake of his head. "Not likely so far east. Either got something playing leshy to scare folks off, or it's just an ominous forest that the hunters don't want to enter."

 _"Why the frown, then?"_ Jaskier asked between bites of his own supper.

"Just trying to make sure I remembered right," Geralt admitted. "It's not likely to be a hunt that'll pay, honestly. Probably just leave it for the next witcher or brave hunter that might come through. Drowners are a sure thing, get us a little gold, and we can move on."

And there it was. In the middle of supper, no less, and Jaskier sighed, pushing his food back slightly so he wouldn't accidentally knock it over.

 _"Geralt, we can stay long enough for you to do two hunts if you want,"_ Jaskier pointed out. _"I told you, I don't want to turn this into a wild goose chase across the continent."_

Geralt scowled and didn't say anything for a few minutes, focused on finishing his supper, so Jaskier did the same, wearily. They were going to have the fight again if he didn't find a different way of explaining himself.

Except then Geralt tapped his hand, and when Jaskier looked up, he had a determined frown on his face, and started to sign nearly immediately.

 _"I need to fix this,"_ he signed, movements sharp and minimal. _"You'll be better off when you don't need to rely on me. You'll be happier when—"_

Jaskier reached out and grabbed Geralt's wrist, startling him out of what he was saying. Because oh, this was a bigger issue than Jaskier thought.

 _"You know it's not up to you to decide what makes me happiest, or what I'd be better off doing, right?"_ Jaskier asked, and he probably couldn't keep a hint of annoyance off his face despite himself. _"I'm a grown man. Those are for me to decide. Not you."_

Geralt frowned at Jaskier, then down into his ale. Jaskier thought they might actually be ready to talk about this in a way that would be more productive than their previous tactics had been.

Which meant, of course, that a breathless trembling local chose that moment to approach Geralt to try to find his daughter who'd been coming back into town along the river where the drowners were last spotted.

Jaskier smiled tightly. _"We'll finish this when you get back,"_ he signed quickly. _"Take care of the drowners."_ And with that he slid off the bench and back upstairs. He hadn't used his wax tablets in ages, but they were still tucked safely in his pack, and he trotted downstairs while writing on one. Geralt was already gone by the time he got there, which meant he probably wouldn't be gone long.

 **Hello again. How far away are the drowners that have been bothering you?** He finished writing, and held out to the proprietress once he'd gotten her attention.

"Maybe a half hour by foot?" she wagered. "If you walk slow."

Jaskier nodded, then wrote again, waved to indicate she should help one of the other patrons while he finished.

 **It shouldn't take my friend much more than an hour and a half to handle them and get back** , he wrote. **Can I impose upon you to bring up a hot bath in an hour and a half?**

She read it then shrugged. "Sure, suppose so. You don't want to wait for him to show up, make sure it ain't cold if he's late?"

Jaskier shook his head. If it cooled down too much for his liking, Geralt could use a weak igni on it to warm it up, Jaskier had seen him do it before. 

**Thank you.** Jaskier smiled and signed it as well. The woman smiled faintly, apparently against her attempts to not do so, and Jaskier winked at her before turning to head back upstairs.

Now he just had to pass the - hopefully accurately estimated - hour and a half or so before Geralt got back. He glanced at his lute case, mostly hidden behind their bags, and considered it for a moment. Now would be a good time to try, if he didn't want to try to play again in front of Geralt.

He pulled out some mending of Geralt's that needed doing instead.

* * *

Geralt managed to come back to the room as the last of the hot water was brought in for his bath, and Jaskier couldn't help but grin smugly at his accurate estimation of how long that job would take. Geralt looked a little confused, honestly, both at the bath and Jaskier's grin.

"Is that for _you_?" he asked uncertainly, and Jaskier rolled his eyes in fond exasperation.

 _"We're having a disagreement, Geralt, not a petty war of retaliation,"_ Jaskier signed, dropping a rag into the bucket next to the tub so Geralt could scrub the worst of the filth off before getting into the tub. _"It's for you because I guessed you'd be back about now. Any injuries?"_ Geralt shook his head, smiling faintly. _"Then you know what to do: strip, scrub, and soak!"_

With that, he went around behind Geralt, who had already unstrapped his swords, and helped him unbuckle and remove his armor.

"Thank you, then," Geralt said softly, and Jaskier squeezed his now un-armored arm in acknowledgement.

Once the armor was off, that was when Jaskier busied himself with giving the armor a cursory wipe-down and examining it for damage that one of them would need to repair, to give Geralt the chance to undress and scrub down without Jaskier staring at him.

Jaskier normally would sneak a glance out of the corner of his eye, see Geralt's thighs or back and sigh wistfully (in his head, not out loud, lest Geralt _hear_ him, which he obviously would, being a witcher and all), but today he felt like their conversation was too important for him to be mildly uncomfortably horny during it. 

He heard the telltale sound of Geralt stepping into the tub with an exhale that was almost a sigh of relief, and stood, wiping his hands on the rag he'd been wiping drowner guts off Geralt's armor with. He retrieved the faintly-apple-scented oil that Geralt had been favoring lately, and moved behind him to wash his hair. It wasn't every time Geralt bathed, of course, but tonight it seemed like a good time to give him a little extra pampering.

Maybe he'd be more relaxed for their inevitable discussion if he'd gotten his hair washed, and they could sort this all out.

Jaskier was almost done combing the tangles out of Geralt's clean hair when Geralt finally spoke, sounding more upset than Jaskier ever wanted to hear him.

"I took your music," he whispered, and Jaskier's hands stilled in his hair. He couldn't decide if he should finish Geralt's hair or move around him so they could talk. No, he should finish or Geralt's hair would stay tangled, so he resumed work, as quickly as he could.

It's only a minute or so, and then Jaskier rinsed his hands, and pulled the stool he'd been sitting on around to the foot of the tub, rapping on the wood to get Geralt to look up at him.

 _"What do you mean, you took my music?"_ he asked, searching Geralt's face.

"You... love music. Making it especially. And you can't anymore," Geralt said, gritting out words verbally instead of signing. Jaskier wasn't sure why. To punish himself, maybe? This was clearly something he'd been practicing in his head, possibly since he left to take care of the drowners. "It's my fault it happened. And it's hurting you. So if I'm not fixing it, I'm allowing it. _I'm_ hurting you."

Jaskier let out a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair. Okay. Okay, that made sense, even if it was desperately misguided.

 _"Geralt, it's not hurting me,"_ he started.

Geralt growled. "You can't even fucking _look_ at your lute!" he snapped. "You don't write. You can't even listen to other people sing without getting anxious. You're miserable, and if I'm not trying to fix it, then I'm just making it _fucking worse_!"

Jaskier's face hardened and he rapped sharply on the side of the tub to get Geralt's focus and shorten his rant.

 _"I am not miserable!"_ he signed, his movements clipped and restrained. _"You're not the one who took my music, and you're certainly not making it worse. You've made it_ **_better_ ** _if anything."_

Geralt frowned and shook his head. "I... but you'll be better off—"

 _"STOP."_ Jaskier signed big enough to cut Geralt off, and then continued. _"You don't get to decide for me how I'll be better off. You don't get to decide for me how I'm feeling. Those are_ **_my_ ** _choices and_ **_my_ ** _feelings."_

He stopped, to see if what he was saying was sinking in at all. Geralt was frowning still, but seemed like he was listening.

 _"You gave me back my_ **_voice_ ** _, Geralt,"_ Jaskier signed, his expression and gestures softening. _"I have words again, like this, and you learned them with me. You_ **_stayed_ ** _, and that means everything to me, because I don't know if I could've gotten through those first couple of months without you."_

Geralt shook his head slightly, but his shoulders were slumped. _"But,"_ he signed, _"You'd be happier if you could sing."_

Jaskier sighed deeply, scooted forward so he could grip Geralt's wrist for a moment, meeting the other man's eyes for a moment before continuing.

 _"I know you want to help,"_ Jaskier signed, _"but I need to have control over something in my life. I can't control my anxiety about playing music or hearing other people play. I can't control if I get my voice back. I can't control how other people might react to me. There is a lot that I can't control, so I_ **_need_ ** _to be able to control what I can. Make my own decisions about my life."_

Jaskier slumped a little, looking up to the ceiling. This was exceedingly vulnerable for him, honestly, but at least he was saying something new. He seemed to be getting through to Geralt, so far. He could only hope he could get all the _way_ through.

"What decisions do you want to make?" Geralt asked, his voice rougher than Jaskier would've expected.

 _"I want to stay with you,"_ he answered. _"I want to walk the Path with you like we've always done. And if we hear of something that might help, then we can look into it, but until then, let's just... be us, like we've always been."_ He smiled wryly, then added, _"Or as close as we can get, anyway."_

Geralt huffs out what might be a laugh or might be a sigh of resignation. _"That's really what you want?"_ he signed, searching Jaskier's face, breathing deeply to - Jaskier assumed - scent if Jaskier was lying.

_"Yes. Please, Geralt, let me just feel like things are close to normal again?"_

"All right," Geralt murmured. _"I'm. I'm sorry,"_ he added with his hands.

Jaskier smiled.

And then Geralt stood up and Jaskier scrambled to look away without getting an eyeful of Geralt's dick, his ears and cheeks immediately heating up in an embarrassed (uncomfortably horny) blush. Geralt muttered something a little amused and a little sheepish and entirely impossible to decipher, and Jaskier heard the sounds of Geralt using the linen sheet to dry off, then moving around for clothes and such. 

"Your turn," Geralt said from behind him, and Jaskier turned slightly to see him casting an igni into the water to reheat it. Wearing pants. No shirt still, admittedly, but at least Jaskier didn't have to risk seeing more of him than was probably appropriate. Jaskier took the opportunity to flip Geralt off, which at least got Geralt to grin.

 _"Give a guy warning next time,"_ Jaskier declared, then waved Geralt away to turn around so Jaskier could strip down.

"Duly noted," Geralt muttered, examining his armor much as Jaskier had when he'd undressed earlier.

Jaskier wasn't actually intending to take a bath tonight, honestly, but the warmth of the water - just this side of too hot thanks to Geralt - was _insanely_ relaxing, and if he could've made a sound, Jaskier would've groaned in a far-too-sexual way on sinking into it.

It was pretty easy to relax, between the hot water and the relief of actually getting Geralt to listen to and understand him. He still wanted to come back to Geralt's thought that he was somehow hurting Jaskier by not actively trying to fix the situation, and assure him that Jaskier getting back to being able to play or listen to music was Jaskier's own journey, and it wasn't Geralt's responsibility to fix that. But that could be later.

He was half-dozed off when he heard soft shuffling of Geralt's feet behind him. There was no sound for a moment, then Geralt said quietly, "Lean forward so I can rinse your hair."

Jaskier twisted in the tub and looked up at Geralt with a hint of confusion. Geralt had never washed Jaskier's hair in all their years of friendship. Geralt was standing there, still shirtless, with Jaskier's soft, faintly-cinnamony bath products in hand.

Jaskier nodded slowly, and turned back around. Geralt tipped Jaskier's chin up with his fingertips, then poured water through Jaskier's hair, soaking it, before working his fingers into Jaskier's hair and scalp.

 _Oh_ , Jaskier thought distantly. _No wonder he likes this so much._

He melted into Geralt's touch for a few minutes, definitely far longer than it took to actually wash his hair. Eventually, Geralt tipped his chin back up to rinse it out, and Jaskier let out a slow breath that would've been a happy hum, if he could speak, relaxed and loose and _happy_.

He turned his face into Geralt's hand that held his chin up, and thoughtlessly pressed a brief, soft kiss to the calloused palm.

Geralt stiffened and froze. 

Jaskier abruptly was no longer relaxed and sleepy.

Neither of them moved or even breathed for a few seconds, and then Jaskier panicked, because he just _kissed Geralt's hand_ , like they were fucking _lovers_ , and he was not ready for Geralt to turn him down, no matter how gently or kindly.

Jaskier was out of the tub and - still damp and dripping and barefoot - in his pants and out the door of the room before Geralt barely had a chance to call his name. He managed to get his shirt on by the time he hit the bottom of the stairs, and darted out the door before he got too much notice by the locals drinking.

And then he was stood in the yard of the inn, panting, barefoot, dripping, his clothes sticking to him uncomfortably, staring up at the stars.

 _Fuck,_ he breathed, utterly silent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GOOD TIMES?
> 
> As you can see, I've given a total chapter count finally, and it's NEXT CHAPTER. But never fear, I actually have more stories I want to tell in this universe, so subscribe to the series so you'll get notifications when the next story goes up! I also removed the Yen and Geralt/Jaskier/Yen tags from this fic because Yen isn't actually showing up until the next fic. Whoops? WE'RE GETTING THERE I SWEAR the next fic has MUCH Yen in it.
> 
> If you need to yell at me, comments are wonderful, and I can also be found [on tumblr](http://bygodstillam.tumblr.com)!


	8. your smile was so sublime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I... I know this took a while. I love you all.

Geralt didn't follow him, Jaskier realized with a strange mix of indignity and relief. Nor did anyone else in the inn. After a minute or two of waiting, staring up at the stars and feeling water trickle down his back from his still-wet hair, Jaskier started to pace.

The yard of the inn was small, really only a place for people to dismount and unpack their horses before leading them to the nearby stable where Jaskier could see Roach eyeing him dubiously. But it was large enough for Jaskier to pace in front of the horses so he could at least pretend he was speaking to Roach as he went.

" _It's fine, right? It was just a stupid instinctual thing!_ " Jaskier paced and tried very hard not to look _too_ unhinged signing to a horse.

Roach huffed, unimpressed.

" _He'd just never washed my hair before,_ " Jaskier continues, rationally. " _Usually if someone else is washing my hair, it's romantic, and so I just reacted like I normally would!_ "

Roach didn't have any thoughts on this, apparently, judging by her lack of response. Jaskier could handle that. Really. He was a sane and rational adult person.

" _So,_ " he said, stopping in front of Roach's stall to face her, " _I should apologize and say it won't happen again, right?_ "

He wanted someone to validate his choice to keep his feelings secret, even if that validation came from a horse who didn't know what was happening.

He was apparently going to be left waiting, because Roach snorted and looked at him _deeply_ judgmentally.

" _You can't expect me to_ **_tell_ ** _him, can you?_ " he signed indignantly, his histrionics uninteresting to the opinionated horse.

" _Roach, he'll leave me_ **_behind_** _!_ " he protested. " _And I won't be able to give you any more apples or sugar cubes!_ "

Roach huffed and leveled a deeply unimpressed gaze on Jaskier as he signed fervently (and possibly melodramatically) at her.

Jaskier drooped, his arms dropping to his sides and all the fight flowing out of him.

That was it, after all, wasn't it? He didn't want Geralt to leave him, but he no longer had the excuse of his love being too much of a burden. If his _love_ was a burden, what would he call his helplessness, his need for translation and support, that Geralt already gave freely and (from all appearances) gladly?

So... 

So why was his love so much worse than anything else Geralt had already expressed a willingness to navigate?

" _What if he doesn't feel the same way?_ " Jaskier signed indignantly to Roach, who stared at him for a long moment before returning to her hay and oats. (She was, apparently, not concerned nor impressed by Jaskier's moral quandary.)

" _What if he sends me away?_ " he asked, and it's a more honest question than he intended to ask of the reticent steed, but there it is.

"I won't," came a low rumbling voice from behind him, and Jaskier turned sharply to find Geralt standing - also barefoot and in naught but his shirt and trousers - on the step of the inn.

Jaskier swallowed hard, trying to work out the lump in his throat. It didn't disperse.

"I... sorry, I couldn't see everything you signed, but I thought I caught that," Geralt said, more promptly than Jaskier would expect even now, and it drew a smile from him regardless of everything else.

Geralt cared that he'd understood Jaskier in the first place. Jaskier could grant him the dignity of a proper response.

" _Upstairs?_ " Jaskier offered, but Geralt shook his head slightly.

" _Are you all right?_ " Geralt signed insistently, and Jaskier laughed silently. Was he _all right_? Gods, but this man sought to kill him and didn't even realize it.

" _I'm fine, Geralt,_ " he signed back with a faint (and sad) smile. " _Everything was just... a lot. That's all._ "

Geralt frowned, and reached out to hold one of Jaskier's hands, running his thumb over the palm and giving Jaskier palpitations that wouldn't leave him for _weeks_ , at best.

"I think I chose wrong," Geralt said eventually, and Jaskier frowned, tilting his head in question. "I thought I had to choose between my calling on the Path, my _destiny_ ," and Jaskier can't help but smile a little at the slight distaste in Geralt's tone, "and the person who was most important to me." Geralt let out a long sigh, and looked up at Jaskier, meeting his eyes. "But I don't," Geralt murmured, "do I? My destiny and my heart aren't different."

His destiny and his heart.

And his heart.

His _heart_.

Jaskier gasped, silent but for the hiss of air as he inhaled, and stepped into the circle of personal space that had always hovered around Geralt as long as Jaskier had known him.

" _Maybe you can choose them both?_ " Jaskier signed, his movements restricted by how close he stood to Geralt, but his eyes never wavering from Geralt's face. Geralt was watching Jaskier's hands, but that made Jaskier's chest glow ever hotter and brighter.

" _Maybe you can choose what you want over what's expected of you,_ " Jaskier added, all reason and logic left behind as Geralt's eyes overcame everything in him. 

"Can I choose you?" Geralt asked, his voice rumbling softly in Jaskier's chest.

Jaskier couldn't breathe. The _possibility_... He stepped back and smiled tightly at Geralt.

" _We need to speak upstairs,_ " he signed seriously, and Geralt nodded in agreement.

He held the door for Jaskier like he was a fine lady. Politely followed Jaskier up a few steps behind, rather than suffocating him and being right on his heels. 

Jaskier was already pacing by the time Geralt stepped back into their room and closed the door.

" _It's just that I haven't been with anyone in more than a year,_ " Jaskier signed immediately.

Geralt didn't respond, only frowned slightly.

" _It felt... romantic. Having my hair washed. I wasn't used to it._ " Jaskier's hands stilled and he chewed his lip, eyes flicking frantically over Geralt's face.

Geralt frowned. Lifted his hands, then lowered them. 

"Is that all it was?" he asked, voice nearly flat, frown firmly in place. If Jaskier were more naive, he might think that... that...

" _Do you want it to be more?_ " Jaskier signed slowly, his eyes locked on Geralt's face, even as the other man had to look away to keep his eyes on Jaskier's hands.

"I won't send you away," Geralt said firmly, his brows knit and his gaze locked on the ground in front of him. "Not over something like that."

He could leave it, Jaskier realized. He could leave it at that, not risk breaking his heart more than it already had been, let Geralt set the limits of their relationship without being _pushed_.

But...

He wanted to know.

Ultimately, after _everything_ , Jaskier wanted to _know_ if his affections had been a waste, or if somehow, miraculously, Geralt felt the same about him. Jaskier stepped closer into Geralt's personal space while still leaving room for them to sign, prompting Geralt to look up.

" _You didn't answer the question,_ " Jaskier signed with trembling hands.

"Jaskier, don't," Geralt whispered, his voice shaking.

Jaskier looked up at him with wide eyes, his heart beating out of control. This could be when it all came together, and Jaskier was... eager, to say the least.

" _Do you want it to be more?_ " he asked again.

Geralt looked away, then closed his eyes tight against whatever the world could throw at him.

"Yes," he whispered. Jaskier rather thought the witcher had hoped he'd miss the breath that had carried his desire, but Jaskier had not.

Jaskier had heard it. And seen Geralt's face. And known Geralt as intimately as a friend possibly could for a decade and a half.

Jaskier reached up to wrap his hand around the back of Geralt's neck and pulled the witcher down into a soft kiss. He didn't deepen it, or prolong it unduly, but it was enough to express his desire, his _want_.

Geralt sucked a breath in when Jaskier's lips met his, and when Jaskier opened his eyes, Geralt was staring back at him with eyes nearly black from how dilated his pupils were.

"I... be sure," Geralt whispered, his tone desperate. "I couldn't stand it if you changed your mind."

Jaskier smiled, trying to comfort and reassure as best he could, and leaned in to kiss Geralt again.

They talked late into the night, cautiously gesturing fondness and hope into the air, interspersed with gentle kisses and soft touches, making plans for getting Geralt back into taking contracts safely, since he was out of practice.

It was well after sunrise, probably closer to lunchtime, when Geralt and Jaskier left the inn. Geralt led Roach by her reins instead of riding, under the pretenses of letting her re-acclimate to regular all-day exercise.

But if, as they left the town behind, he reached out to hold Jaskier's hand as he led her, Jaskier wasn't going to complain.

* * *

"I'll be back soon with food for dinner," Geralt said as he grabbed the bolts for his little crossbow, and glanced up at Jaskier for his response.

Jaskier felt that little warmth blossom in his chest the way it did every day when Geralt made a point to check for a response, and finished setting up the bedrolls with a little satisfied pat.

" _Go on, then, I'm hungry!_ " he signed, and Geralt's mouth quirked in a smile.

" _You have your flare?_ " Geralt asked, bolts securely in a pouch on his belt and hands freed.

Jaskier rolled his eyes fondly. Geralt had made a little flare of some sort after a week or two back on the Path, that would not only shoot off a bright light but make a loud whistling sound if it was thrown on the fire. It was Jaskier's way of calling for help if something happened while Geralt was away from their camp.

" _In my pocket,_ " Jaskier verified, patting it for emphasis (and to double check for himself).

Geralt nodded, satisfied, and came to drop a kiss on Jaskier's forehead.

"Stay safe, Jaskier," he murmured, his lips still on Jaskier's forehead. 

Jaskier smiled and tugged Geralt down into a proper kiss, pressing his hand over Geralt's heart for a moment. _I love you_ , it said, without him having to speak. Geralt mirrored the gesture, then strode purposefully out of the clearing they'd set up camp in.

Jaskier fell into his part of the routine that they'd rebuilt the past few months with ease. He combed out Roach's mane and tail as Geralt had already brushed her down otherwise. Made sure to build up the fire and collect extra firewood from the area just around the camp.

Once everything was ready, Jaskier started to grab the new journal Geralt had found him, where he'd started keeping track of stray thoughts and mental images. It wasn't quite songwriting, or even poetry, but it was still more than he'd done before.

He hesitated, hand outstretched toward his pack, and stared for a long time at the lute case safely tucked behind the saddlebags.

Maybe... maybe it was time.

He swallowed hard, but reached further to pull the case towards him, delicately opening the case and lifting the instrument out of the case it had sat in largely untouched for nearly two years.

Jaskier pulled it against his chest, his hands instinctively trying to fall back where they belonged before.

There was only one way to find out if it was time yet. Jaskier carried the lute over to the bedrolls, sitting on the edge and settling the lute in his lap. It glowed as it reflected the fire in the waning daylight. He didn't try to hum, but pulled up the proper pitch of the first string to circle his mind, and carefully, carefully slowly tweaked the first string's tuning until it was correct. And then the second. He barely breathed as he made his way through tuning all the strings, until he was left holding his gorgeous, somehow not even dusty and barely out-of-tune instrument in buzzing hands that had lost all of the proper calluses for playing.

His chest felt like his heart was trying to crack through his breastbone, but he licked his lips and brought his left hand into position, fingers pressed to the strings.

He plucked out a chord.

The world didn't end.

Jaskier didn't even notice that he had started crying as a wide smile split his face, and he threw himself into playing as long as his hands could stand.

He had a voice of his own in his hands, he had Geralt, and he'd finally found his music again.

Everything really _would_ be all right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THERE IT IS!!!!!!!!!
> 
> This is not the end of this story!!!! I'm working on the start of the next fic in this series, which FINALLY brings Yen into this story, since it's still intended to be an OT3 story eventually! Subscribe to the series so you get a notification when it finally goes live!
> 
> Thank you so so much to everyone who's come on this adventure. This is the first multichap fic I've ever finished, tbh, and this was the first Witcher fic I ever started, so I'm absolutely tickled to be able to mark it as "complete". I hope y'all stick around to see the ongoing adventures of Jaskier and Geralt (and YEN thankfully soon) through the world and story while Jaskier's still voiceless. And maybe they'll even manage to get it back!
> 
> Thank you all, again, for reading this and helping encourage me through your comments and kudos to work on all the other things that I've got in the works. I love you all so much!!!!!!!!!

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on tumblr! You can find me there at [@bygodstillam](http://bygodstillam.tumblr.com). Feel free to scream at me there, too.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Interlude: i've got so much left to say](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26862433) by [ruffboi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruffboi/pseuds/ruffboi)




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